Pussy-Licker: Affectionate Vandals

PUSSY-LICKER: AFFECTIONATE VANDALS
(OR THE DIFFICULTIES
OF BEING SINCERE)

by
TRISTAN TROTSKY

Sex. Greed. Art. Death. Lies,
and more sex in Barcelona

Hey you. Can you spare a couple of Euros for a 'phone call home? I'm stranded here in Barcelona with no money. That can be dangerous for a girl on her own. And I have to call my mother, you see...?

What's that? You want to hear my story? Buy me a cappuccino and a croissant. I'll tell you what you want to hear. As a taster, this is how it ends.

The telephone rings. And the Ansaphone kicks into action. Before I can reach it, the voice begins. It's Carlos the chauffeur. He's saying 'ze beetch, ze beetch, she is dead. Eet is horrible. Under the wheels of ze car. And now she is dead...!' For a moment I can't believe the testimony of my own ears. This is too good to be true. All I've longed for. All I've worked for. All I've waited for. A sense of warm anticipation washes over me. I reach up under my short dress. Tug my panties down and off. Then kick them away. I won't be needing THEM. The air is arousing on my bare skin. Now I'm ready for my employer who waits in the bedroom. His big penis is now mine... all mine.

Interested so far? Now I'll rewind to where it all starts. I first meet Ian in Manchester. He's long-haired and shabbily-dressed. But his dark eyes are the eyes of a dreamer. We are two Art Students. We move in together. I'm so in love it's pathetic. Then he decides to drop out, the better to further his muse. I go with him as far as our savings take us. Down through La Belle France. To Catalonia, this - he enthuses, is the land of Dali, Miró, Gaudi. A land of pure clean Mediterranean light. We wind up in a garret in Barcelona. It has to be a garret. He paints. We drink red wine. Eat long crusty bread sticks and cheese. Have lots of torrid sex. Heaven it is to be young and in lust.

I pose for him, sprawl naked, legs splayed. He caresses my bare inner thighs with the soft bristles of his brush, then moistens them with the flow of vaginal wetness that results. The better to invest his art with sexual magic. He applies paint directly onto my body, decorates my nakedness with intricate patterns, until my breasts look like Art Deco Easter Eggs. I have good breasts - big, but firm. As you can see. I can tell you've noticed.

Inspired by Spanish Surrealism Ian moves from figurative art to abstract explosions of vivid colour. And we evolve this original technique for creating random patterns for his work. I crouch nude to suck him off, then - at the last moment I point his twitching cock and direct the spurt and dribble onto the canvas so he can then outline the random blobs and trickles that result into arty shapes. We are forcing back the cutting edge of avant garde with organic sperm painting. And he becomes obsessed by the possibilities of this new art-form.

When I get over-enthusiastic, as I sometimes do, and swallow his ejaculate, he gets angry because I've wasted a possible masterpiece. He goes 'are you stupid? What do you think you're doing? This is not just for your pleasure, you know. I'm doing this for ART!' At his insistence we abstain from love-making for days on end so his sexual charge builds up to improve the force and amount of his ejaculation, its angle and intensity of spurt. So I get less sex. Which is not natural for me. While we continue to starve.

As the street-market closes at dusk I hang around, picking out over-ripe bananas and half-rotten oranges they've binned. One day I see a Bag-Lady sitting in the Placa Catalunya opposite the Corte Anglaise. She's trying to sell bits of splodgy spirals and abstracts she's done on cardboard strips ripped from Supermarket packets. This gives me an idea. We set up a rival pitch among the pavement cafés and the Buskers down Las Ramblas. Ian exhibits his paintings. He even sells one every now and then. Usually the nudes. While I get bored, and to pass the time I develop this telephone routine - approaching likely-looking Tourists who have big cameras and too much cash.

I do my Little Girl Lost 'Spare-me-your-spare-change' bit for a 'phone call home. And it works.

It's this way that I get to meet Malcolm. I ask him for 'phone cash. He invites me for a cappuccino. Just as you have. And I concoct a story for him. We walk around the harbour by the Columbus statue. Watch the huge fish flip and quiver through the water chasing burgers thrown by the tourists. And as I talk I can tell by his face, as I can tell by your face, which parts of the story he enjoys. When I talk about sex. When I tell him how Ian is hung like a dog's tongue, and how I enjoy sucking his cock. You like that, don't you?

After more coffee he invites me back to his Hotel. I'm no whore. But I'm hungry. Some of the mystique of romantic bohemian poverty has soured. It's been a long time since I slept in a proper bed with clean sheets and room service.

He's in his mid-thirties. Rich, not bad looking. Yes - I probably shouldn't have. But I'm not even getting good sex anymore. The sun leaves me brimming with volatile hormones and promiscuous enzymes. So pretty soon we're naked in his room and doing it on the floor, then in the power-shower, on the bed with me riding him, then he's straddling me, his bare arse resting on my tits and I'm urging 'that's right, do it to my mouth, fuck my throat, do it like you do it between my legs.' And he does...

The following morning he offers me a live-in job. Sol Del Mar curves around the bay from the castle on one side, to the harbour on the other. The air is scented with olive groves. It is beautiful. And I hate it. I watch the millionaire's yachts riding on their reflections and I want it all so badly that it hurts. Malcolm's villa overlooks it all. He has a yacht. He also has a Mercedes, a chauffeur called Carlos... and a bitch-wife called Leonora who has an obscene French poodle called Asterix. But I move in anyway to fulfil various 'domestic duties'. At this stage I still have plans to raise cash to rescue Ian. The more cash the better so I can promote a real exhibition of his work and properly launch him into Art celebrity. If that means fucking with Malcolm whenever his wife and her obnoxious poodle are away, then that's not too much to ask, is it?

Leonora colours her hair, she's in her mid-forties. And it's her money. He has none of his own. When she's away we drive out to a deserted beach so we can be alone and frolic as naked as kids in the tide, then we fuck beneath the open sky. And what's in it for me? Apart from sand, that is! It's then we talk about futures. Malcolm is something of a gigolo. He married money. But won't have complete control of it - until bitch-wife Leonora is dead. So we do what-if's, lying nude in each other's arms in the sand dunes, he sucks my pussy and I play teasy touch-games along the length of his cock. What if we recruit a mercenary hit-squad to take the bitch out in a hail of bullets? What if we cut some brake-pipes and the Bitch goes off some Costa Brava cliffs into the sea? The Bitch. She's always the Bitch. Bitch this. Bitch that.

We can't even fuck in the villa because the Bitch and her damned poodle might come in unexpectedly and catch us in flagrenté delcitio. Even when we drive back from the beach he drops me at the corner Supermarket so we return separately, to allay suspicion.

But even while we fuck I'm still thinking of Ian. I get the chance to go back just once. He's in the same garret. But when I knock, the door is opened by Rosita in a bathrobe. I swear I can smell spunk on her breath. Inside he's working on a painting. He takes me aside and tells me 'it's alright, she's only a model,' but he says it in a whisper she's not intended to hear. At first it's so good to see him, despite a little... coldness.

Then Rosita shrugs the bathrobe off and lies back on the bed naked. Our bed. And she's got big tits with darkly pigmented prominent nipples. The kind he's always liked. But hey, she's a model - isn't she? It's her job to get naked. It's no big deal. But I swear he's been wetting his brushes on her cunt juice. Then I look more closely at the painting he's working on. The familiar spurt and dribble. And I know what she's been doing to him.

I imagine her squatting down in front of him by the canvas, with his lovely big cock shoved in there between her lips as she sucks at it contentedly, those fat tits wobbling as her head bob-bobs up and down his glistening-wet length. I can even see the expression on his face as he approaches orgasm. The slut. She smiles at me a smug satisfied smile. Even the moist curve of her vagina smiles at me. And suddenly I'm no longer thinking of sponsoring his career in art. I'm thinking of me.

So later, I concentrate on Malcolm. I do what he wants. Anything he wants, no matter how frequent or how dirty. And he can be delightfully dirty. But then again, so can I, because I'm working towards that day when bitch-wife Leonora becomes a deceased ex-bitch. He inherits. And me...? I'm there to benefit from his sudden wealth.

Now. Picture this. Carlos chauffeured Leonora and Asterix into Barcelona for more shopping, two short hours ago.

The retro wall-mounted telephone rings. And the Ansaphone kicks into action. But before I can reach the 'phone the voice begins. Carlos is saying 'ze beetch, ze beetch, she is dead. Under the wheels of the Mercedes...' This is too good to be true. I reach up under my short dress, tug my panties down and off, then kick them away. I go to the freezer and grab some wine. Malcolm is in the bedroom. That big penis of his is mine - all mine. And more importantly, the wealth that goes with it.

He surfaces up out of sleep with a confused 'what the hell do you think you're DOING?' as I draw the covers back. I pour two glasses of wine and crouch down between his sweaty bare legs. Dip his flaccid cock into my dry white sparkling, then lick and suck it clean until it's flaccid no more, standing up stiff and proud.

'Ze Beetch' I breathe between greedy laps and slurps, 'ze Beetch, she is dead. Carlos says so. An accident with the Merc.' I mouth each fat round testicle, one, then the other. He lies on his back, arms behind his head, watching me as he lets me do the work. And I'm good at my work. I enjoy it, each trembly twitchy pulse up against the roof of my mouth, each undulation of his stomach as my tongue provokes a sudden inhalation of breath. I enjoy sex, and I've had plenty of practise.

I climb up to straddle him. Direct his slippery saliva-wet cock into launch position, rubbing its inflamed glans backwards and forwards between my legs, through my pubes, along the lips of my moist pussy. Then I sink down onto him slowly, so he's impaling me by degrees. It's full length sliding deep into my cunt. On this bed. Their bed. I'm fucking him on Leonora's bed!

I wriggle my hips down as far as I can go, trapping as much cock as I can. An act of taking possession. Looking him straight in the eye as I do it. He likes the fact that he's nude, and I'm clothed - but for my absent knickers. But now it's time for more. I unzip. Shrug my dress off until I'm as bare as he is. Moving up and down on him so he can see the way the sex action makes my tits undulate and quiver in rhythm. I sink down on him again and let just my vaginal muscles do the work, clutching and clasping at his fleshily enveloped cock as I bend forward to hold the wine-glass to his lips.

Then I trickle wine onto my breasts until they glisten wetly and wine drips from my nipples, and I lean in so they hang in front of his face. His red tongue goes lick lickety-lick. Then his lips clamp onto my nipple as he sucks it long and indulgently. I cradle his head there as I begin the fucking movements again, and his breath comes in hard sharp gasps trapped up against my skin. I'm reciting 'ze beetch is dead, ze beetch is dead' with each up and down stroke. This cock is mine. This villa. This wealth is mine. All I've longed for. All I've waited for. All I've worked for. Now all I've got to do is this, twice a day. Fuckity-fuck. Keep him satisfied.

I draw back now, and slip-slither up off him. Intent on making it last. I flip around slowly and deliberately, so he can see EVERYTHING, and go down into sixty-nine, soixaute-neuf, my favourite position.

Do you like to sixty-nine? I can tell by the expression on your face that you do. I bet you're good. I bet you can REALLY make a girl wriggle!

Anyway. Picture this. I'm nudging my open cunt down over his face so his eager tongue can spear into me, while arrowing his big throbbing cock back in between my lips, tasting myself on him, and sucking at it hungrily, rippling his fat balls with my fingers.

Then there's the sound of the Mercedes in the drive.

A long pause as we writhe and squirm, eating at each other...

Then the bedroom door hurls back. 'WAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!' wails Leonara through her tears. 'My little Asterix is dead. Malcolm, oh Malcolm, my little Asterix went under the car... and... OH!!' I look up over a mouthful of cock. I can't believe the testimony of my eyes...

So I'm back here. Doing the 'spare-me-your-spare-change' telephone routine up and down Las Ramblas again. They threw me out, of course. She got hysterical. He blamed me for taking advantage of his sleeping weakness. It was the bitch-dog and not the bitch-wife that was dead. And they threw me out. I can't go back to Ian, even if wanted to, he's with Rosita, his Spanish slut. So I'm stranded in Barcelona with no money.

Can you spare a couple of Euros? Or more? What's that you say? You want we should go back to your Hotel... for more, conversation? Well, why not. I'm no whore, but I'm hungry.

So yes, just this once.

BY TRISTAN TROTSKY