Tramps

One of the good things about having a busy sex life is variety – there’s always something new that pops up, so you just don’t have time to be bored.

Plus Rog goes through periods of being turned on by different things, so once we’ve done something a few times we move on to something else, though we often re-visit certain scenarios, especially if we both had a good time. Like uglies, for example. No offence to those involved but what that means to us two is choosing a guy who’s outside my normal boundaries of age and appearance and shagging him anyway. Rog really loves the idea that I can not only go through with shagging someone I don’t actually like (not even Viagra helps him shag fat women, let me tell you) not only can I go through with it, but it makes me cum just as if it was someone I really fancied. He loves that. Don’t mind it myself, if I’m being honest, and if I’m not, what’s the point of writing this?

A few people I’ve spoken to on chat have really got turned on by it as well, and I can see their point but I can’t get as exscited about it as they do. From where I sit (or lie, or kneel, or whatever) it’s really very simple. It’s just a reflex action, and there’s no big psychological deal attached to it. Tickle my nose and I’ll sneeze. Tickle my pussy and I get wet. Stick something in and wiggle it about, and it makes me cum. I don’t really have any choice, or control, over any of those things.

Still fascinates Rog, though, but as I think I’ve mentioned before, he is a pervert.

As you will see for yourself when I tell you where he got the idea from.

We’d been clubbing in London, at quite a posh and well-known venue in the West End, and we’d had a fair amount of fun. Let’s be clear about this. The only reason we went there was to find a fit young lad and get him to shag me silly, and I’d set about it in the usual way, short skirt, high heels and lots of gusset on display. It worked, as usual, and I’d had a bit of a snog and a grope with quite a few handsome lads over the course of time, but then I spent quite a long while trying to get a well-known sports person to put his hand up my skirt all night, but though he came close, and pressed a very hard and quite big erection into my tummy (through his trousers, no undressing) he just wouldn’t do the groping thing and kept looking around. If you ask me he was trying to work out where the photoghraphers were, because the Sunday sleaze papers employ hookers now to try and trap celebs, and this one definitely belonged on Get Me Out of Here.

Anyway, no joy there, so I went back to sitting on my stool and showing the world my still very wet knickers while I had a drink, and pretty soon we were joined by a very well-spoken and well-mannered bloke. About Rog’s age, but immaculate, full DJ and bow tie, Canadian, just out of some boring reception and dinner, according to him, watched me from a few yards away for a good 5 minutes before he came over, so I made sure got a really good loook and now here he was, anxious for a bit of fun, it seemed to me.

We chatted, he asked if Rog minded me dancing, and off we went. Soon as we got going he sort of pulled me up close and I could feel he was already hard, so I pressed against him and enjoyed that for a while, told him hubby doesn’t mind when he asked, and in fact likes to see me do the deed with strange blokes, and what about coming to our hotel?

He was quite surprised at first, if not shocked, and didn’t really believe me

So we went back to outr drinks, I told Rog that whatshisname (sorry, really don’t remember) didn’t believe our arrangement, so to speak, so Rog confirmed it all with big smailes and have another drink, why don’t you, and so whatever-his-name-was appeared to accept that. We went off for another dance and this time he wasn’t shy about having a good feel round and had his hand up my skirt without much delay. I think he was checking out the story, though, because as soon as he’d got a finger in me he was looking over my shoulder to see what Roger’s reaction would be – which was a big smile and a raised glass.

Now he definitely believed he wasn’t in trouble, he settled down and gave my pussy his full attention, and I’ve got to say he did it very well. Trust the older bloke, eh? Strong, firm, gentle and a good mix of repetition and teasing. If he does the rest of it the same, I thought, this will be a very pleasant evening, even if it’s not a full-on shag-my-brains-out session that I get from the younger lads. And to prove the point, he realised the effect he was having and paid even closer attention to what he was doing and made me cum very gently and nicely as a result. Lovely. I do like that.

As you may know, what I want most of all after I’ve cum on someone’s finger or tongue is a good hard shag with lots of spunk and a huge big screaming O for me, so I tried to get him out of the club and back to the hotel as quick as possible, but to my amazement, once we’d got outside the door, said he’d changed his mind about being watched, thank-you very much, and have a good evening. And that was him gone.

And me gagging. I mean desperate for the hard, strange cock I’d been promising myself all evening and looking forward to for the past however long it was since he put his hand up my skirt. At least half an hour, maybe more.

With the club closing (yes it was that late), there didn’t seem as if we had much choice except to go back to the hotel and patrol the corridors naked and see if anything exciting happen. You can laugh, and its hardly a reliable way of getting a man, but it HAS worked before, promise. And in London, too, now that I think of it.

Anyway, we walked round a corner and the pavement was sort of blocked by a bunch of old tramps, sleeping around a huge big grating – Rog tells me it was the air conditioning outlet for a hotel, blowing warm air across the pavement. Not that it was a cold night. Anyway, they were in front of it, some snoring sound asleep and one or two wide awake.

They all kind of gawped; I had a red dress on, very short and very clingy, stocking-tops always showed if I walked more than 2 steps, and we’d come a fair way, so that’s what they were staring at.

Now i should remind you of Roger’s standard test for drunken-ness. If we’rte with a bunch of people in public and he thinks I’m a bit merry he always says show them your knickers Lucy, and if I do I’m drunk. Must have done it hundreds of times, if not thousands, in all kinds of places and situations. Sometimes it leads on to more interesting things, sometimes not.

So the tramps were all staring and muttering – there were eight or ten on the pavement and maybe half of them were awake and watching, when Rog said show them your knickers Luce, and I pulled my skirt up without even thinking about it, and got it waist-high before he’d finished the sentence. So I’m tottering there in my heels and fake fur, coat open, skirt up round my waist, with them growling at my stocking-tops and knickers, and me with enough baccardi inside not to think it was strange or unusual. That’s why I was tottering, by the way. High heels are hard enough sober, but somewhere around baccardi number six a girl loses her ability to keep her pants on or walk in heels.

They were all a bit raggy and dirty-looking, especially under street lighting, but they were all staring very hard. Girls get used to that, when you walk into a room full of guys and they stare, they don’t just look, they stare, not deliberately, because they don’t know they’re doing it, and you feel like Bambi in a cage full of starving lions. Quite nice, if you’re interested, as feelings go, and one that often starts a little dampness in the knickers. Mine, anyway.

So when Rog asked them if they liked what they saw I pulled my skirt up a bit higher, did a half-turn left and right, getting the knees apart and giving them a better view, and the stares got hotter, Sounds silly, but guys do that. Get their interest and you can almost see the blood temperature rise by watching their eyes. If I was a nurse I wouldn’t need a thermometer, though I bet it would be fun to use.

Anyway, Rog could see me showing off a a bit, so then he’s asking them if they want a feel, and that stopped the burning stares because they basically didn’t believe him. Go on, go on, he was saying, like the woman in Father Ted, and I helped with a bit more twisting of the hips and so on, but they just gawped. God gave me two hands though, noty just one, so I pulled my knickers aside and showed them what they were missing. One of them started dribbling straight away, one started swearing to hiomself, like fuck, fuck, fuck over and over again, and one of them – young, not bad looking under the dirt, started quoting the bible at me. Really.

He was calling me harlot and stuff, and quoting verses, but I’m not up on my Bible studies, plus he was Scottish and I could hardly understand a word. Harlot and whore were about it. Oh, and Jezebel.

Oh go on, have a feel, you know you want to really, said Rog, talking to the Scottish one, and I helped him decide, spreading two fingers in between my lips and holding myself open. Later on, Rog told me it looked very tempting, all wet and swollen, but the bible-basher just kept on spouting all these verses, give not thy soul unto harlots or something like that, and closed his eyes so as not to be tempted, I suppose.

The others were just staring, like a cartoon, mouths wide open, saying nothing, but the dribbling one was positively drooling now, making the pavement wet between his knees.

And it wasn’t the only wet thing in the vicinty of course, because I’d just noticed how extremely horny this all was. Showing my pussy to strange men always makes me horny, showing it in a situation where it’s unexpected, doubly so. Doing it in public doubles it again. Doing it to a bunch of tramps sleeping rough in the street was suddenly very very rude. But I wanted the bible boy to pay attention, so I asked him if he was quite sure he didn’t like what he saw. Because it was the first time I’d spoken to him he opened his eyes, and I gave him my best smile, and slid two fingers in.

Had completely the wrong effect, and not only did he screw his eyes shut tight enough to keep out water, he went of the deep end with the verses, calling me all kinds of names and presumably bringing down a plague of locusts or some such, though you couldn’t tell with all that Scottish going on.

I was concentrating on him so hard I’d almost forgotten the other three, but they were still there, because one of them spoke. I do, he said, so quiet I only just heard it.

The dribbling one was still drooling away, and probably would have drowned if he’d tried to speak so it obviously wasn’t him, the swearing one was still swearing, and also holding himself, his arm all jerky, so he was wanking in time with his repeated fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. It was a third one who spoke, and now he was reaching out towards me, but too far away to touch.

God knows how old he was under all the grime. Could have been anywhere between 40 and 60, but there was no way of telling. His face was dirty, his beard was straggly, and when he spoke it was clear he hadn’t been cleaning his teeth 3 times a day either. But his voice was clear enough. I do, he said again, and shuffled forwards slightly. The other two were kneeling but he was sitting on some kind of coat or something, and he shuffled it across the pavement again till he was more or less in front of me, still reaching with one had. One very dirty hand, I couldn’t help noticing.

Go on then, Rog said, speaking softly, talking to me as much as the tramp, I knew, and I only had to half turn towards him and he’d be able to touch me. He didn’t look at Rog, didn’t look at me, just kept staring between my legs with his hand out, waiting.

One step, and it was a foot in front of his face, so he could see it easily in the orange street lights, and reach it without straining. His hand was trembling when he touched me, fingers shaking , quite a nice effect interestingly enough. He made a noise in his throat, and began to stroke me really gently, which was not what I expected at all, and I made a bit of a noise in my own throat, which startled him a bit , I think, and made him look up, and our eyes connected.

That suddenly made it all very personal between us and for some reason THAT was really horny. Oh, the situiation was still very very rude and was what had excited me in the first place, standing there in a London street beside a major hotel, occasional cars going past on the main road, a group of filthy old tramps watching me lift my skirt and play with my pussy, and then one of them touching me. That was definitely horny and the memory of it is making my knickers wet years later, but when we did the eye thing and it got personal, that’s when I let myself go, and I knew I was about to cum.

It didn’t take long for either of us actually. I got my feet wider and wider apart, mking more room for his hand and lowering my pussy even closer to his face and pretty soon I was doing all the heavy breathing and whispering. I’m not so much a moaner as a shouter, and now I was trying to keep my voice down, telling him to keep going, harder, faster, don’t stop, don’t stop, so he’d know I was cumming, and as I watched his face he started to cry.

Havden’t got a clue why, but I promise it’s true, there were tears running down his face, but his fingers just kept moving, getting faster and the tears were rolling down his cheeks and that’s what made me cum so hard I thought I would fall over, yelling my head off now, going yes, yes, oh yes, like I do, grabbing him by the wrist and pushing his fingers inside so my pussy had something to cling on to as it contracted over and over again. When I opened my eyes and my breathing got easier, I relaxed my grip on his wrist a little, but I didn’t let his fingers slip out because there were still a few last grippy spasms going on very slowly, and I like that bit as much as the rest of it.

After everything that had happened during the evening already you’ll know I was very worked up and wanting to fuck and now I’d cum for the second time the need was desperate and I still think that’s the reason I was ready now, and I knew I was going to fuck this old bloke out here in the street. Roger still says it was the crying thing, but I think wjhat happened next proved him wrong. But then he remembers stuff I can’t though he still says I must have been aware of it at the time. The old man wasn’t looking at me now. He was bent over, eyes down looking at the pavement, clutching between his legs with his free hand. Apparently while I was cumming he had too, crying out a woman’s name, which is what Rog says I must have noticed, because he’s sure the tramp came first and then m, but that’s something I have to take his word for. Sjhame, because Rog can’t remember what the name was and I’m sure I never heard it, but still.

But bad memory or not, Rog still knows me well enough to know it wasn’t over yet, bless him – in fact it was still only just beginning and as I said, more desperate than ever. He’s a quick thinker in these situatios, and he gently took my hand off the old man’s wrist and slipped his fingers out of me and turned me to the wall, but I can still remember exactlyevery detail of that last sight of the old guy, bent over holding his groin and sobbing to himself, keeping time with the mad one, who was still staring and swearing, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Weird.

I can also remember exactly how much I wanted to be fucked. When I get like that nothing else really matters till I’ve had it, and Roger says he can always tell. Not so much from the eyes, cos he says they always go a bit spaced out when it’s time to shag, and not so much from the dopey expression (likewise). He calls it dopey, anyway. Other blokes with a bit more class call it horny or come-to-bed, which is obviously closer to the truth. But he says my body goes all flexible but super-co-ordinated, so I look like I’m dancing very very slowly and perfectly when I’m really just walking, but my hips do that gyrating thing a girl does when she’s riding a big one. Put all that together with everything that’s gone before and he knows it’s one of those occasions that I’ve just gott to have it. I keep telling him it may or may not be true but it’s all a bit too complicated. If you ever see me in public with my skirt round my waist and my knickers in disarray and soaking wet – I’m ready to fuck and I’m going to do it as soon as possible, with the nearest man.

Who in this case was still quoting the bible to me, and I can remember exactly what he said. , Turn away thine eye from a beautiful woman, for many have been deceived by the beauty of a woman, but he’d got his eyes wide open and he’d obviously been watching me with the old guy because he’d made a great big bump in the front of his jeans. He was wearing a multi-coloured woolly hat, a blue zipper jacket made from very thin plastic, filthy dirty jeans and flappy trainers with newspaper stuffed in the gaps where the soles were falling off. God knows how I remember all those destials because I was looking at that very impressive bulge, and I only saw THAt for a moment. Roger turned me away and walked me to the grating in the wall where the warm air was coming from. It was taller than me, which isn’t difficult I know, and had thick horizontal slats, ideal for holding on to, which is how he positioned me. Bent over at the waist, with my fake fur jacket well clear, skirt up, bottom sticking out, feet slightly apart, knickers to one side, pussy shining wet and ready. There isn’t a vicar in the country who could resist you like that he said after, and he must have been right, because when he said come here then the young tramp didn’t hesitate.

I was looking back over my shoulder and he just got up like he was in a trance, still spouting his verses, but walking steadily, two or three steps until he was close behind me, undoing his fly (it was buttons, not a zip I remember) and when I felt the cloth of his jeans scraping against my bum I spread my feet apart and leaned back at him, and I could feel it, upright and thick, wedged in the cheeks of my bum, balls just brushing against my open lips, wetting them and clinging. I was fast, my hand between my legs, reaching back to grab it and put it in, but he was even quicker, leaning away from me, pointing it down and it was right in, all the way to the bone before my hand got anywhere near it.

Then he fucked me, really very hard and very fast. That stopped the versifying but I’m not surprised, because he can’t have had the breath to say much, because he was like an animal. I don’t mean that unkindly, but if you’ve ever seen a movie with a dog you’ll know what I mean. No finesse, no slow start, no gentle interlude, just maximum speed from the instant it went in until he’d finished cumming. It was so fast and hard it literally knocked the breath out of me so I didn’t have time to say anything either, and instead of my usual talking I was moaning properly, all oohs and ahhs, and it’s lucky I had a good grip on the grating or we’d have fallen over.

I doubt that would have stopped him though, because he only had the one thing on his mind, and he was just battering away like a steam train. Which was a frantastic feeling I’ve got to say and EXACTLY what I needed at that moment, especially because his cock was a really nice size. Big but not huge, and gorgeously thick, just what a girl needs at a time like this.

But it was his technique, or lack of it, that was the really horny thing, just banging away at superfast speed like he didn’t care what I thoughty or felt. Probably didn’t, but it didn’t matter because it felt fantastic and I must have made more noise than ever before in my life, screaming my head off and cumming over and over again because he just didn’t slow down for a fraction. It was partly the continual movement inside me and alsoa lot of it was sheer surprise at his speed and aggression and the fact that it didn’t seem as if he’d ever stop. I have no idea how many times I came before he did. Rog says it wasn’t a long one, about 5 minutes tops, but he said after 3 times it all just merged into one big yell and he couldn’t tell them apart. And I lost count after the first one. In fact I lost the plot completely as soon as he started fucking me like that, and all I can remember is one big orgasm that seemed to last for hours, pussy still clamping down on him long after the last squirt of cum had emptied from his jerking balls.

As soon as it was over he was away, buttoning up and mumbling in Scottish, and as I pulled my skirt down and buttoned my coat he shuffled off, back to yellling verses. Roger said he called me the mother of harlots and an abomination on the earth. I liked the first bit better than the second, but I didn’t really care. What a great fuck.

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