Dirty Mouthful

Not a poem. Not a story. Not an exercise in character development. And, erm, no... no speech marks. Not one for the pedants.

*

I... am bored.

I'm waiting at a train station. Been on a reception for the country's best English teachers in some godforesaken shithole up in the grim North and desperate to come home.

I went in disguise. So I am wearing a long silk dress - a light green, with hints of silver - and my long brown velvet coat with the Georgian painted brooch, the portrait of a young woman, long dead, caught in her prime, on it. Long wavy thick dark red hair. Boots. They wanted eccentric English teacher, they got it. I look like a Harry Potter extra.

Yes. Bored.

I go into the station bar. Raise the odd stare - they aren't used to different, not even at the station - order a pint and a shot, Bisongrass vodka, and knock it back in one. I pick up the pint, still at the bar and look.

There's you.

Alone. Naturally. Not looking up. Naturally. Scribbling ferociously in a notebook, like an American college student on a once-in-a-lifetime trip around Europe.

I drink the pint.

I order the same again. The barman, boy really, attempts what I assume is flirting.

Nah. Can't be arsed.

So, yeah. I guess that leaves you.

Fuelled up, I sit at the table next to yours - the place is tiny. I tap on my Blackberry.

Your notebook irritates me. I can hear your pen scraping across the paper, and I'm guessing it's a fountain pen. Something fancy, I'm guessing. Or old. Montblanc maybe.

Yeah. Irritates me.

That's one helluva noisy pen, I voice.

You pause.

I'm sorry, madam, if it offends your sensitivities. You reply.

And I just laugh.

I know I have to suck your cock, but we'll have a dance to get there. So I start.

I'm not normally so rude, I say, but it is a remarkably loud pen, with a scratchy, look-at-me, air about it. Perhaps... Perhaps, if I might be so bold, that's the American in it?

You pause. I refrain from telling you it's meant to be a joke. Sometimes I get sick of pointing out my version of humour. It's a point in your favour, though, when you smile and comment that it must be representing your nation's stereotypical qualities on your behalf, as you are as far from attention-seeking as it gets. A gentle submissive kind of soul, you tell me.

There's an appealing hint of humour there that I like.

But still, I have a mission, and a train to catch in an hour and a half, so though I can offer you some ritual, my heart's really on the next step.

You buy me a drink. You order yourself some soft drink - they're all the same to me. I switch to coffee.

I move to your table.

You are here on a writers' conference. You were invited because you specialise in erotic literature of a specific nature.

You've never been to England before.

You love all the old shit. Okay, not your words, and you stop short of calling us 'quaint'. But your thoughts as I hear them.

By this time my coffee cup's empty, and I say I know where there's some really cool, old, almost quaint shit - these are my exact words, mate, but I'm bored with this madrigal.

Wanna see some cool English stuff?

Do you ever.

I have no idea where I'm going.

It's Winter, dark, around 7pm in a Northern dump, and I am looking for a place to suck your cock before my train leaves in 52 minutes.

I am an expert in finding alleys. And I, taking your hand, lead you down one.

This, I say, is what we in England call a blind alley. And I have led you down it.

I stand you against a wall, not too deep into the alley, as I like the glow of the streetlights, and the closeness to civilisation.

I am not feeling civilised.

I kiss you.

I touch your face with one hand and then I take off that coat of mine, fold it up and throw it on the floor between us.

I kiss you again. And then.

Then, I kneel down in front of my squeaky-penned American writer-man and I unzip his trousers.

Now, I'd be lying if I coaxed your sleeping dick into life from scratch with my mouth. You, it doesn't need much coaxing, and it looks pretty awake from my view.

And I am looking.

I take your cock. And I do, I lick the end. With one hand I cup your balls, and with the other I hold your cock and I lick its tip. And watch and feel it respond by twitching back at me.

I take the end, just the head, into my mouth, and I suck, and then I bite, sharp, just once. And then I slide my lips down the shaft of you, and just fucking bob that head, which you are holding now with your hands.

I'm not counting. Or thinking. I am bobbing and sucking and letting you fuck my face. Specifics escape me as I was in the moment, but I sucked that cock, you, good and proper, like your English school teacher, who hates too much description but just wants you to cum into her mouth.

I love it when you push my head, guide it, showing me exactly what you want. I do.

But most of all, most of all, I love the taste and the smell and the feel of you in my mouth, and I love those moments when I feel you about to cum. And I just want to smile.

As I feel you beat that cum out into that waiting waiting mouth, I, yeah, love it. Pause.

I slip my mouth off your cock, still holding it. And I swallow what you've give me. And then I lick you clean, kiss what I've sucked, and, when it's ready, tuck it back into its home.

I stand up, flick the dirt from my coat and kiss you.

And then I catch my train.