SUNSET HIGHWAYS 

  Encounter I

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I walked towards the little prefabricated, single storey dwelling encircled by bay trees at the far end of the street where, for the last two months, I had lived. In the heat and humidity of mid-morning there were few sounds, bar the gentle whisper of the corn fields beyond the houses.

I made my way quickly and quietly up the short, scruffy driveway pocked with weeds and edged with scorched grass. Marie’s front door lay open, as did the bedroom windows. Her budget did not stretch to air conditioning.

“Ca-va?” she said, inclining her head towards me as I walked, stiffly into the sparsely furnished, stifling hot living room, unsure of the current value of my stock.

“Fine thanks,” I replied taking the long glass of cloudy, aniseed-smelling liquid that was proffered.

I was already five minutes late for Silvia. She would be sitting in a bar on the village square, probably dressed classily in a floaty, summer slip, sipping wine and smoking cigarettes. Almost certainly a smattering of the local wide-boys with their camp mopeds and expressions of youthful optimism would already be circling like vultures, shouting provocative comments in her direction, trying to impress her by popping wheelies on their pathetic steeds, dreaming of the moment when they would find themselves nuzzling into her breasts, tugging at the material of her panties, slipping their fingers in between her lithe, tanned thighs.

But yet, here I was perched on a tired, sun-bleached leather sofa in Marie’s dusty living room. Realistically, the woman sitting before me was probably touching forty; maybe just a little less. Her hair was well cared for, dyed honey blonde with dark roots showing. She was a little overweight, her creamy pale skin resisted all attempts by the sun to tan her and though she was attractive, maybe even beautiful from some angles, she wore too much makeup and her pale green eyes spoke of many places, many people, many relationships.

We observed one another, drinking, saying little, as I tried to hide my desire to simply leer at the expanse of black nylon stretched to breaking point over her legs. Not to mention the band of bare flesh visible beneath the hem of her cheap black miniskirt, which she had allowed to ride up to hip level. Between her ample thighs, under the little skirt she knowingly offered me periodic glimpses of shiny, blue material - a pair of cheap, trashy knickers.

In general, her garments had clearly been chosen to provoke me, irrespective of the climate, she wore heels and a shimmery, wet-look strapless top, the colour of red wine, pulled skin tight over her large, heavy-looking tits.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” she lied in her alluring, indeterminately European accent.

“I felt like talking to you,” I retorted honestly.

I liked listening to her talk, almost as much as I had enjoyed the brief charade of resisting her advances. She was mysterious, unknowable, foreign; yet she spoke English, fluently, eloquently even. Her lurid recollections bewitched me, as they were, viewed through a lens of hard knocks, of exploitation and sex as a tool of the rich and powerful.

“Am I keeping you from your girl?” she smiled putting out a cigarette and taking a sip of what I guessed was Pernod, served strong but very long. A jug of iced water sat on the table, two thirds empty.

“A little,” I conceded.

“You know, I could be your Mistress,” she said taking pains to emphasise non-verbally what that might entail, “or am I too old?”

“You’re definitely not too old” I lied, “but do you have any experience of being the woman on the side?”

She laughed at that, “aren’t you that Scotsman from down the road who likes me to talk about how many men I’ve been with, then gets so excited that he fucks me on my living room floor?”

“I suppose so,” I admitted, “so, you were telling me about being a Mistress.”

“I was?”

She gave me something approaching a matronly look as I drew closer, my hand eagerly, impatiently reaching for her right breast. I squeezed it possessively, trying to see the profile of her nipple though the thin, clingy material. My crotch was about face height with her and she appeared to survey the hard, uncomfortable protrusion in my jeans with some satisfaction.

“I suppose I was” she said in a faraway voice, “it was right at the end of the eighties. I was, shall we say, being kept in an apartment, close to Bordeaux. I was involved with an American heir. He was rich, arrogant, crazy. But I would do anything for him… and did. I was one of a handful of whores he kept stowed around places he frequented and I was keen to retain my place. I liked the lifestyle, you see - freedom within chains, money, parties, being driven in fancy cars, sex with no morals and few boundaries.”

While she spoke I knelt before her, running my hands over her smooth nylon-clad legs. As my hands caressed her, my thoughts turned to Silvia. I pictured her body, her firm little tits, fresh, dew-like kisses and fragrant cunt. But it all melted away as I listened to Marie’s smoky voice and watched rapt as she languidly parted her thighs, cocked a leg against the back of the sofa and with a single finger drew the gusset of her knickers to one side, displaying herself to me.

“What did you do with him?” I asked, my fingers stroking at the neat triangle of faun-coloured hair between her legs, drinking in the smell of her perfume, her skin, her vagina.

“We did lots of things, but what he really liked more than anything was to piss on me.”

I listened, beginning to lap slowly at her moist, opening; first dragging my tongue from bottom to top before pushing my tongue between her lips, penetrating her.

“Like, how?” I quizzed, between savouring tastes.

“Use your imagination.”

As I lapped at her, I pictured her on her knees, urine streaming down her tits, raining down onto some deep, opulent carpet, I imagined the kept woman, goading her lover on, encouraging him to fill her open mouth with his piss, and willingly swallowing it down.

“Did you drink it right from his cock?”

“Sometimes,” she said.

I felt her fingers slip beneath her buttocks, allowing me more access, giving me an uninhibited view of her most intimate places.

“But he was an old fashioned libertine,” she recalled somewhat wistfully, “eventually he wanted more than I could provide alone.”

“He introduced you to other partners?”

She continued; her voice soft, breathy and low as I pleasured her, “one spring morning he turned up at my door with a young woman. A Parisienne, beautiful, dark haired and wild eyed, willing to try anything in the pursuit of attention, lust and money.”

“Did you have to fuck her?” I asked running my fingers over the swell of her belly, keeping her splayed wide and vulnerable as I introducing my index finger into her easy, experienced fuck hole, my tongue hard against the underside of her clit.

She sighed, trying to maintain her focus.

“He watched us together on the bed, suggested ways in which we might further his pleasure, demanding to see all his favourite acts meted out. He photographed us, drank in every detail. I had never been with a woman before, had no real desires in that department, but I threw myself into it, gave him everything he wanted to see.”

“Such is the lot of a kept woman,” I theorised.

As I spoke the words my mind wandered to Sylvia alone in the bar, anything but kept. I thought about her bent over a bar stool while the alpha male of the moped squadron fucked her from behind, spurred on by the jealous eyes of his subordinates. I imagined Sylvia’s dreamy, dusky eyes gazing round at the semi-circle of young men behind him, waiting to feel her cunt around their girth, waiting to pound her slender, toned haunches, to shoot their spunk up inside her. In the hushed, shabby warmth of Marie’s front room I blinked the uncomfortable pictures from my mind, rallied and gently introduced a second finger deep into her.

“I remember the moment when I first licked her pussy,” she recounted softly, “I stuck my tongue as far as I could into her, desperate to get her off, desperate to please him, feeling both excitement and disgust at myself.”

I pictured the scene, saw it burning bright in the golden haze of my third eye as the heady taste of her sex filled my mouth and the effects of the alcohol lapped at the shores of my brain.

She sighed deeply as more of my fingers went to work, massaging her tunnel, working her over.

“The girl squatted over me,” she said “spread herself without shame, made sure he had the perfect viewpoint of us both. Then, I watched his big, handsome cock come in above me and penetrate her anally. I had never seen the act from that perspective before; never seen another woman take a man’s cock that way. But he wanted me to see every detail; to be close enough to smell it. I watched as her tight little hole stretched to accept him, haltingly took him in, then slowly spat him back out again; so vulgar, but such a sight.”

“How did her asshole look?” I pushed her for the graphic, lurid details I craved as my rock hard cock, ground painfully against the edge of the sofa.

“I looked inside her.”

“And then?”

“He told me to suck his cock to make it nice and slippery for her. I did it. I could taste her ass mixed with him. Then, I watched as he started to fuck her again. He took his time, using her body to gratify himself, a slave to no person but himself. When he finally withdrew from her, I felt something splash me. At first I thought it was his cum or maybe even that she had ejaculated on me. It didn’t matter which. I opened my mouth, keen to degrade myself further for his enjoyment.”

“She pissed on you?”

“So it transpired,” she smiled, revelling in my reactions to her exploits as I gazed admiringly at her, legs spread, proudly displaying herself for my attentions.

I rose to my feet, began to unzip my jeans, relieved to be unfolding my cock from its hot, uncomfortable bonds, “I just need to get this out,” I said massaging myself out to full length as she watched.

She looked over my dick approvingly.

“So, what did it taste like?” I pried further.

“Her piss?”

I nodded, standing over her, looking down and admiring her form; the way her ample, pliant tits wallowed to either side of her chest, the soft swell of her belly, her shapely legs clad in those black hold-ups.

“Salty, bitter… intense.”

“You enjoyed the deed?”

As we spoke I began to imagine myself in the middle of the scenario she described.

Inwardly, I teased myself, allowing my swollen bladder to believe I was about to relieve myself. I embraced the hot discomfort of the situation.

“Both pleasant and unpleasant,” she summed up succinctly.

I liked that.

The fingers of one hand moved to the pretty, pink, wet triangle of exposed vaginal flesh between her legs while she placed her other hand behind her head and reclined, smiling as if she knew the pictures I was painting in my mind.

“You’ve stopped looking at your watch,” she said, finally.

For a moment I thought about Sylvia, on her knees, her pretty slip wrenched down over her tits, a cock in each hand, a third pushed deep into her mouth as its owner was brought to a climax. I saw a thick cocktail of saliva and sperm running down her chin, dripping down onto her chest and spilling down her little cleavage as she hungrily clutched at physical gratification. There would be more and more of them thronging round her, hard, eager erections presented to her greedy grasping hands, as she jerking on them until they spurted their silky white load onto her olive skin.

“I can’t remember why I did,” I said, blinking back the pictures, “where were we?”

“You look as if you’ve got something you need to do,” she said.

I was still playing roulette with my overfull bladder, my cock now slightly softened to the point where there was a very real possibility I could go, right here, standing in Marie’s living room, right over her faded leather couch, right over her.

Then, suddenly it was a matter for debate no longer.

Marie made a little sound, somewhere between amusement and pleasure as I suddenly and with unintentional intensity arced a geyser of clear, warm urine across her chest.

Without pausing to analyse her reaction further I soaked the front of her top, causing the shiny, clingy material to adhere prettily to the bulbous contours of her tits.

“Was that a good shot?” she asked me playfully, inclining herself in my direction, apparently, perfectly at ease with the act.

“I didn’t really think that much about what I was aiming for,” I said, a fraction embarrassed at being in the spotlight.

Marie hitched herself up a little and stretched the soggy, clingy material downward, slowly, pointedly exposing both her voluminous breasts, “was it these?” she enquired flirtatiously.

With that approval I proceeded to douse her beautiful bosom; watched my piss course down over it, streaming between her tits, dripping off her erect nipples, pouring down her chest and soaking her skirt, the sofa, the carpet, everything. It mattered not. She pushed them together for my pleasure, fingered her nipples, massaged my essence into her skin, licked her fingers, all the while smiling up at me, rarely breaking eye contact, loving the focus on her, however base and sordid.

“Is this how you used to play with your American heir?” I asked genuinely.

As she rose elegantly to a sitting position, still submissively placed before me, I felt her hand cup gently, confidently around my balls, placing her in a position of greater control.

“There’s something missing from this scene,” she said.

“What?”

Marie, gently, deliberately tilted her head back, opened her mouth sensually, her hand still around my genitalia, then suddenly, I found myself relieving myself into her willing mouth.

“Do you swallow?” I asked.

She confidently took in a full mouthful, then, in a display of comparative elegance, given the circumstances, closed her mouth, swallowed and then defiantly displayed it to me as being empty.

“Happy now?”

“How do I taste?”

“Like a man,” she smiled dirtily, leaving me to ponder the meaning of that.

“I should warn that I spit too,” she commented, taking another mouthful and then promptly discharging a lurid cocktail of urine and saliva back over my cock and causing me to grow too hard to pee any more.

Marie looked up at me, gauging the degree to which all of that had impressed me. Her skin was glistening wet, her eye makeup running a little as I rubbed my now rock hard cock against her cheek. She still managed to look so good.

“Was that fun for you?” she asked, almost demurely.

I nodded, “very much so. But I feel bad. You’re completely soaked and I’m not.”

She rose, nodded towards the sofa which was now splattered with rivulets and little pools of my pee, “sit there.”

I settled down into the pleasantly wet, warm brown leather and enjoyed the view as Marie stood before me and slowly peeled the wettest of her garments, the tight little skirt, her knickers and the clingy wine-coloured top, off her voluptuous body and kicked them to one side. She faced me, placing a hand on her hip, canting her head to one side in rather a burlesque gesture. She was naked apart from a necklace, black holdups and black patent heels, her curvy frame glistening. In the deep, humid warmth of the room, I could smell it on her; my pee, mixed with the gentle floral aroma of the perfume she wore.

Both pleasant and unpleasant.

“Is this your first time?” she enquired stalking provocatively towards me as if I was about to be on the receiving end of some kind of lap dance.

I nodded, “I know it’s not yours.”

She smiled, sultry and controlled, shook her head, “don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

I savoured the glorious sight of her ample bum descending over me as she squatted, vagina splaying as she did so.

“Just like your Parisienne girl in Bordeux?” I asked.

“You are asking for detail of whether or not I pissed in her mouth?”

I thumbed open her cunt as it hovered above me, supple, engorged, fragrant, “yes.”

“I did it in her mouth, in her open pussy while she played with herself, lots of ways,” she said as if there was nothing remotely obscene about what she was describing.

She ejaculated a little trickle which I struggled to lap up but lost it as it spluttered down her inner thigh, a single rivulet melding with the wetness of her slicked skin.

Her story continued, “he had fucked her ass deep enough that when he finally withdrew, he left her gaping. She told him she loved how it felt, loved him looking at it. Not to be outdone, I suggested that we both piss into her. I remember her giggling like it was going to be the greatest thing in the world, remember her with her ass sticking in the air, presenting herself to us.”

“I’d love to see such a thing,” I said.

“Perhaps you will,” she said as she came, spurting forth, her urine spilling in a faltering cascade of salty, warmth down onto my chest.

“You can go more than that,” I encouraged, pushing her buttocks apart, admiring her pussy and anus which distended wantonly as she strained to relieve herself.

In my mind’s eye I imagined Sylvia walking away from the bar in the village square, shades on, nervously glancing around to make sure no one who knew her had seen her leave. She walked quickly, the taste of their cum still heavy in her mouth, hair brushed back to hide the clumsily doused strands that had landed there, knickers damp. She turned into a secluded alleyway, smiled to herself as she made her way home.

“Vous le boirez?” Marie asked above me.

“Oui.”

I let my mouth fill with her wine, let the bitter intensity fill my senses before swallowing it down as if it was the most splendid taste the sphere of human existence had to offer.

Both pleasant and unpleasant.

“Encore?”

“Oui,” I enthused as she began to expertly pump her fist round my cock, bringing me off.

It would take very little.

She squatted lower, then came again as I splayed her with my fingers, drank directly from source, swallowing it down until I could do so no more and spat it back up at her, splattering her gaping pussy.

Her grip around my shaft, fingers massaging my balls, our bodies pressed together in a sensory-heightened bubble, soaking wet and out of control, drove me close to the inevitable moment of ejaculation. I massaged her buttocks as the tide rose, squeezing the soft flesh between my fingertips as the final fitful squirts of piss erupted forth from her. I took one last greedy mouthful as she finished up then jerked her round, pulled her hard against me. I kissed her, the salty, hormone-filled stuff flowing between our mouths. We passed it back and forth until it was all but gone as I came hard in her hand, a thick gout of cum splattering her soft belly.

She looked down at it, satisfaction registered on her face at the huge, thick ejaculation she had elicited from me. She scooped the still-warm stuff up with her fingertips and fed it to me.

“Maintenant, embrasse-moi encore,” she said, “nous avons juste commence.”

I was about to formulate a reply using my broken grasp of the language when something registered in my post orgasmic fug. A warning bell sounded somewhere in the depths of my mind. I had let my guard down. There was something in my peripheral vision, something in the room with us; a presence of something that didn’t belong.

I looked up, registered the figure in the doorway. Horror dropped like a black velvet curtain and shock, embarrassment, shame and guilt instantly seized my heart in a sudden, vice-like grip that almost registered as a physical pain.

The person standing in the doorway to Marie’s living room was slender, dressed in some kind of appealing girly floral summer dress and sandals, her chesnut tresses pinned up and a pair of expensive sunglasses nestled atop her head.

“Silvia!” I exclaimed looking up into the girl’s shocked features as she stared back at the two of us.

Both pleasant and unpleasant.