The Vagrant

WARNING! This is hard core erotic fiction about a misogynistic, sociopathic pervert who spends an afternoon sexually exploiting a homeless, alcoholic woman after encountering her in a laneway behind his apartment building. The sex is technically consensual and there is no violence in it per se. However, the man takes great sadistic pleasure in demeaning and humiliating the woman emotionally, psychologically and physically and this is described in graphic detail. The sex scenes contain descriptions of very rough sex, the taste and smell of the woman's unwashed vagina (which is an aphrodisiac for the perpetrator) and anal intercourse and oral sex involving scat. The story is told from a first person point of view and the character narrating it makes no apologies for his cruelty to the inebriated, disadvantaged woman he "seduces". In fact, he relishes sharing every excruciating detail of the encounter. If you think you might be disturbed by this tale, scroll on.

The Vagrant

It was late afternoon on a hot mid-summer day and I'd escaped my non-air conditioned apartment to nurse an icy can of beer on my balcony. My rear-facing apartment overlooked the building's parking lot and a dumpster-choked laneway running behind dilapidated old apartment houses like mine so the view was less than spectacular. But at least the balcony caught a gentle cross breeze that in combination with my cold beer gave me some relief from the heat.

I'd just opened a second can when I spotted a woman walking down the center of the laneway towards my building. Of medium height and on the stocky side, she had a pack sack over one shoulder and wore baggy jeans, runners and--despite the heat--an oversized, black hoodie. It was obvious from her scruffy appearance and the way she slouched slowly along as though she had no particular destination in mind and all the time in the world to get there that she was one of the growing horde of homeless people who infest my down-at-the-heels neighbourhood.

When she was directly behind my building, she stopped and sat down on a low wall separating the parking lot and laneway. Rummaging through her pack sack, she pulled out a battered cigarette box and shook a bent, half-smoked butt into her hand. After straightening it, she lit up and inhaled deeply as she gazed morosely off into the distance.

The woman was clearly on the skids but she stirred no pity in me. These bums all have hard luck stories that blame an unfair and callous world for their problems. The truth is that they're usually the victims of their own laziness, bad habits and poor decisions. No, I felt no sympathy and compassion at all for the vagrant. All she aroused in me was growing lust as I thought of how she could provide me with some lecherous entertainment on that hot afternoon.

I am not one of those men who is carnally obsessed with young, shiny-faced bimbos sporting perfect, gym-built, designer-clothing-clad bodies and bubbling over with chirpy self-confidence stemming from a keen awareness of their high value in the sexual marketplace; the sort of preening gold-digger who expects to be taken out to a four-star restaurant on a first date where she tosses her silky hair and prattles on endlessly about her dreams of becoming a famous model or influencer as the sucker paying the bill sits there nodding, smiling vacantly and pretending to listen while he wonders when and if he's going to get his hands on her perky, silicone tits and perfectly waxed, deodorized cunt. In reality, his chances of fucking one of these toxic narcissists are close to zero unless he's a high-end fashion designer or potential sugar daddy or oil-rich Arab sheik. And if she does by some miracle decide to throw a little nookie his way after he's laid out enough cash, she calls the shots in bed and the sex is vanilla, antiseptic and boring.

The women I crave are usually neither eye-catching nor self-assured. In fact, they often possess bodies that are sliding into ruin after years of neglect and harsh living, and whatever small amount of self-respect they've retained is in tatters. Their precarious existences often lead them into desperate circumstances and chronic neediness that makes them vulnerable to manipulation and sexual exploitation. These hapless down and outers aren't professional whores who sell their bodies on a regular basis but when they're particularly hard up, most will agree--with a little prodding--to do just about anything for a few dollars or a rock of crack or meth or a bottle of cheap wine or a little food to fill their empty bellies. On one occasion, a weed-high teenage runaway with a severe case of the munchies let me fuck her up the ass in return for ten dollars and a box of extra spicy KFC. After consuming her meal and another blunt, the pot-blitzed girl sucked my cock with greasy lips before getting on all fours and whimpering loudly as I deposited a load of man sauce in her tight, teenage tail pipe.

I'm always direct with these slags and never feel any shame or embarrassment when I explain exactly what I want from them, however kinky it might be. They're in no position to be judgmental and their opinion means nothing to me anyway. They've chosen to live in a perpetual state of degradation so I feel no guilt over degrading them further. In fact, I take great pleasure in it. That they seldom do only increases my pleasure.

Growing homelessness and addiction has drastically upped the numbers of these women in my city but finding them can still be a hit and miss proposition. I've spent entire nights hunting this prey only to come up empty-handed. Now, almost miraculously, this hoodied scrunt had been delivered to my doorstep like a present from some benevolent and perverse god and I wasn't about to pass up this unexpected gift. In a flash, I was out the door and on my way down to the parking lot to see if I could entice this munter into some nasty afternoon recreation.

She sat with her back to the building so didn't see me approaching.

'Hello there,' I said in a friendly tone when I was a few feet from her. 'What are you up to?'

Alarmed, she rose quickly to her feet and picked up her back pack.

'Uh, nothin', mister,' she answered in a low, raspy voice with a Southern drawl. 'I was just leavin'.'

'Oh, don't run off,' I said. 'I didn't mean to disturb you. I saw you from my balcony and thought you might like a real cigarette.'

I held out my pack to the surprised woman. Thanking me, she fumbled out a cigarette and put it between her lips.

'Do you live around here?' I said, offering her a light.

She told me she was staying with a friend nearby but would soon be moving into an apartment of her own and starting a new job. The story was obviously fiction but I didn't challenge its veracity.

As we continued to smoke and make small talk, I looked her over. She wore her mousy-brown hair in a messy pony tail high on the back of head, pulled back loosely from a sun-browned face that contrasted dazzlingly white teeth too perfect to be anything but false. She appeared to be about forty-five but street life prematurely ages these women so I couldn't be sure.

With her full-lipped mouth, high cheek bones and deep set green eyes, she was not unattractive but her glory days were long past. The flesh of her face sagged and constant anxiety had etched deep worry lines on her brow and in the corners of her mouth and eyes. Gin blossoms--tiny red and blue capillaries that have burst due to excessive drinking--flowered here and there on her face and there were dark pouches under her bleary eyes. All these signs indicated that she was a drunk and the slight tremor in the hand that held her cigarette made it evident that she badly needed a drink, a predicament I knew I could use to my advantage.

When she'd finished her cigarette, she nervously asked me a question I'd anticipated.

'Uh, mister? You wouldn't happen to have a couple of bucks you could spare, would ya? I, uh, gotta catch a bus to a job interview and I forgot my wallet at my friend's place.'

It was the opening I'd been waiting for.

'Sure, I can spare you a couple of bucks. But I've got a better idea. How about if you come up to my apartment and have a couple of beers with me? Then you get naked, lay back and I'll eat your pussy while I jerk off. After I shoot my wad in--oh, twenty minutes or so, I'll give you fifteen bucks and you can be on your way. Sound good? '

She looked stunned by my blunt proposition.

'What? You're not serious, right?' she rasped.

'Serious as a heart attack.'

She frowned and shook her head in shock and disbelief.

'Jeez, mister. You got me all wrong. I ain't no hooker!'

'I didn't think you were,' I replied. 'What I do think is that you're a woman who needs money and I'm a man who likes to eat pussy and is willing to spend a little cash to do it. It's a win-win situation for both of us.'

I could see that she was considering the idea but still wasn't convinced.

'Well...how do I know you won't try to do other stuff to me?' she said. 'Like rape me or drug me or somethin'. I mean, just gettin' my pussy ate is okay but I'm not up for nothin' else.'

I replied that force wasn't my style and I meant it. I take pride in my ability to elicit at least grudging consent from the women I target without resorting to physically overpowering them or covertly administering them a substance to render them unconscious. Where's the fun in that?

'Look, all I want to do to do is give you some head, which you might even enjoy because I'm good at it. When I'm finished, you'll leave with a nice buzz on and fifteen bucks in your pocket. Everybody's happy. What's not to like?'

'That's all? You won't try to make me do nothin' else?'

I assured her that I wouldn't but didn't mention that I fully intended to persuade her to renegotiate our deal when the time came. I had much more in mind than simply licking the vagrant's snatch.

She pondered the offer, weighing the risks against the promise of much-needed money and free booze.

Finally, she looked at me and asked:

'You got any wine at your place, mister? I ain't too big on beer.'

Inside my apartment, I told her to make herself comfortable on my sofa. I went into the kitchen and unscrewed the cap of a nearly full half- gallon jug of cheap fortified wine that I kept on hand for situations like this. I sloshed a large pour of the plonk into a water glass for her and cracked a beer for myself before returning to the living room with the drinks and jug. As I set the booze down on the coffee table in front of the couch, I saw that the heat in my apartment had prompted her to remove her bulky hoodie. Underneath she was wearing a tight wife-beater that outlined a pair of big, plump tits. This, I thought to myself, was getting better and better.

I sat down beside her and handed her the tumbler of wine. She thanked me, raised the glass to her lips and gulped a large mouthful of the crap wine. For the first time since I'd encountered her, a smile crossed her puffy face. Seconds later she took another deep pull and then another. As the level of wine in the glass diminished, the more relaxed and chatty she became. She praised my shabby, under-furnished apartment, telling me how lucky I was to live in such a nice place and hoped she would live in one as good someday. Any place with a roof and a chair where one could sit drinking all day would be a palace to this vagrant, I supposed.

She also expressed curiousity about me.

'You sound real educated, like the way you talk and all,' she said. 'You musta gone to college, right?'

She was not wrong. In my early twenties, I'd earned my Masters degree in Sociology from an ivy league university and was a full-fledged professor on tenure track at that same institution a decade later. One of the perks of my position was the opportunity to inveigle female students into providing me with sexual favors in return for higher grades. I enjoyed many such relationships with ambitious but scholastically challenged sluts for several years and always exercised the utmost discretion in these quid pro quo arrangements. But then one of these little harlots decided a few years after she'd graduated that I had exploited her and lodged a complaint with the University administrative board about our lascivious relationship. Word got around and a number of vengeful little bitches with whom I'd enjoyed the same sort of relationship came forward to attack me like hyenas drawn to a bloody carcass. Not only was I was forced to resign, I was blacklisted in the academic world and my scholastic career was finished.

With few employment options available outside academia for someone with my rarified credentials, I took a job as manager of the run-down apartment complex in which I now lived. While the pay was a fraction of what I had previously earned, the job was not without its benefits. I had less stress in my life, more time to pursue my degenerate interests and now resided in the perfect place to do it. I found that many a struggling female tenant was willing to make up a rent shortfall or speed up a repair to her apartment with her cunt, mouth or asshole (or all three in some cases). I also realized that my neighborhood was rife with poachable wildlife like the ragged tramp sitting beside me and I took advantage of my situation whenever opportunity presented itself.

Of course, I told none of this to my alcoholic guest and simply nodded in response to her question. She wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer but she had the sense to know when it was time to mind her own business so didn't pursue a more detailed response when I didn't offer one.

As we talked and drank, I caught whiffs of a heady bouquet of sweat, cigarette smoke, stale liquor, dirty clothing and unclean flesh emanating from the scrag's body. This did not put me off. In fact, part of my attraction to these hobos is their rank body odor, particularly the pungent, raunchy scent of their unwashed crotches. I began to wonder what this grubby tramp's nether regions smelled like and became impatient to get my face between her legs to find out.

'Ok, sweetheart,' I said. 'Finish off that glass and let's get the show on the road.'

She looked at me blankly as if the two tumblers of wine she'd consumed had made her forget why she was there.

'Time to get your pussy eaten and earn some money,' I reminded her.

'Oh, right,' she stammered. 'Okay, mister. What...uh...how should I...?'

I told her to get on her feet and she swayed a little as she complied, woozy from the booze she'd put away.

I put my hand on the small of her back and guided her towards my kitchen table. Positioning her with her ass almost touching the edge of the sturdy table, I told her to strip down to her shoes, socks and panties.

She nodded and pulled her wife-beater over her head before reaching behind her to unfasten her bra and let her big tits tumble free. They were slightly stretch-marked and sagged down to her flabby belly but reasonably full and firm for her age. Her rosettes were silver dollar-sized and the same tan hue as her leathery nipples. On one of her udders someone had inscribed a crude tattoo in now faded blue ink that read:

G L O R E A

'What's this?' I asked, indicating the tat.

'That's supposed to be my name. Only the loser who done it spelled it wrong. It's spelled G-L-O-R-I-A with an 'I'.'

I laughed and reached out to cup her big jugs in my hands.

'Well, Gloria with an "I", you have a most impressive set of tits,' I said as I squeezed and hefted her meaty dugs, rolling the soft flesh in my hands and thumbing her hardening nipples.

The compliment brought a shy but pleased smile to her face. Even derelicts take some pride in their feminine attributes. Or what's left of them.

'Thanks, mister,' she said. 'They ain't what they used to be but they still ain't bad, I guess.'

I pinched her nipples hard before releasing her tits and stepping back.

'Now pull off your jeans over your shoes.'

I don't have the same fondness for foot odor that I do for the smell of an unwashed pussy so I wanted her shoes and socks to remain on her feet.

She stepped out of her jeans and I saw that she was wearing a pair of tight, grayish-white panties that emphasized her bulging pubic mound and camel toe. When she began to remove them, I told her to stop. Stripping off a skank's underwear is for me a pleasure akin to unwrapping a present to see what goodies are contained inside.

'Now, get up on the table and lay back.'

The wooden table creaked as she clumsily hefted herself up and onto it. She leaned back slowly until she was lying flat with her arms against her sides and her feet dangling a foot above the floor. I snagged the elastic waist band of her panties with my fingers and tugged them down over her thighs and calves. Pulling them free of her feet, I dropped them on the floor among the rest of her rags.

I placed a chair in front of her and after removing my pants and underwear I sat down as though I was about to partake in a delicious meal. I instructed her to lift her legs and pull her knees back towards her chest and when she did, I put my hands between her chubby thighs and parted them. Immediately, my nostrils were filled with a strong, rich funk wafting up from her crotch.

'Jesus H. Christ!' I exclaimed, when the smell hit my nose. 'Your cunt is really ripe!'

Thinking I was disgusted rather than pleased with her pussy odor, she clamped her thighs together and stammered an embarrassed apology.

'I'm--I'm sorry, mister. 'I been sleepin' in my clothes the last couple of days and...uh, I didn't get no chance to wash myself too good. I'll go wash my pussy in your bathroom if you want.'

'No, you won't,' I said. 'You'll stay right where you are and open your legs.'

She reluctantly did as she was told and once again the malodorous miasma from her unwashed pussy filled the air around us.

I bent forward and gazed down at her crotch, now exposed in all its lurid glory. Her chubby mound was covered in stiff, curls of brown hair that thickened between her legs, framing her thick cunt lips with an oval-shaped pelt of fur damp with sweat after marinating in her panties over the course of that hot day and who knew how many days before.

I spread the folds of her inner pussy flaps with my thumb and forefinger to reveal the pink, glistening gash between them. It looked mouth-wateringly delicious. Bending my head, I placed my open mouth against her vulva and pushed my tongue into the damp, smelly folds of her public flesh. The flavor of the slag's cunt was sharp and ripe like a strong French cheese mingled with acidic notes of vinegar. I savoured the tangy taste and tongued and mouthed her gash from top to bottom while I stroked myself slowly.

At the upper end of her trench, my tongue connected with her clit. Initially semi-flaccid, it grew firmer each time my tongue brushed against it until it had swollen to the size of the tip of a man's thumb. I pushed my face hard against her greasy crotch, wrapped my lips around her taut fuck button and began to suck and jab it with my tongue.

I was gratified when she let out a low moan and spread her legs wide but not because I cared about her pleasure for her own sake. Rather, I knew her enjoyment of the act would give me more leverage to goad her into pushing past the limitations of the deal we'd struck in the parking lot.

I continued to suck her clit and lave it with my tongue as I placed my index finger at the entrance to her cunt hole and pushed it slowly in. Her slick canal offered little resistance to my invading finger but she was not as loose as many of the slags I'd picked up. whose twats are completely bagged out after years of regular stretching by sundry cocks and popping out unwanted babies. A few months earlier, a fifty-two-year-old, black crack head who boasted to me that she had birthed eight kids by seven fathers since the age of fourteen agreed to let me watch her shove a wine bottle up her pussy for a rock of crack. She didn't bat an eye as it disappeared into her cavernous hole and when she'd accomplished her task, she left it there while she calmly smoked her payment with a few inches of the bottle protruding from her snatch.