I break into a full sweat and stream with aguish fever. I climb out of bed, draw my curtain and stare across the street. The war girl with the breast-length flowing black hair and huge breasts is propped hard against a pebbledash wall, dressed to kill in her fake fur bolero, wide-mesh fishnet tights, six-inch stilettoes, little else, smoking a fag.
Since the steepest rise in fuel, heating, food, drink, and lifestyle costs, flocks of single mother émigrés from occupied war zones, gather on the council estate, street corners, ravishing ravens in soiled plumages pestering passing men and women for meaty morsels to feed their starving broods.
An elderly tenant complained to the council who promised to get ’round to cleaning up the streets, ridding the paths of vagrant sluts as soon as they deal with the potholes. That’s what sluts are in the eyes of local political elites: little more than human potholes waiting for fools to fill them. I often sidle past the tall slut with her endless, long legs on my way to the corner shop to buy my men’s magazines declining the slut’s lewd offer for me, her woman, to get my leg over her.
Until today. Today, I feel sorry for her, ridiculously exposed to the chills like that, her bared knees and bare crotch sore, red, inflamed, chaffed by the cutting cold. We’re two of a kind: sluts, filth, detritus, one and the same, androgynous lifeforms, faking it, struggling to keep a grip on our warped, depraved personalities, distended characters. Me: seeking a purpose in my life, the slut selling her ample body to pay the bills. I wonder if she’d like some of my hot tomato soup, toasted deli focaccia, thickly spread with fatty margarine, cheap yeast extract, to warm her up? The slut’s breasts have chilled blue; her nipples are stiff: she looks as if she could do with it!
Forgetting, I’m not wearing my clean bra and panties, haven’t shaved, showered or shone my teeth, I throw on my soft pink tracksuit and trainers, and race outside to ask her in. Only when I’ve locked the front door do I realize I’ve left my tablet lying on the bed, revealing my other dangerous liaisons.
Seconds later, I am standing in the street, my legs apart, hands on my hips, consoling the colossal slut.
‘You must be cold, standing in the snow, don’t you have a home to go to?’ I say, genuinely.
The slut shrugs her shoulders drawing off her bolero to reveal her heavy breasts, breasts that flop and sag with the sheer density of them, breasts riven, strewn, riddled with enticing clusters: varicose veins spreading, ominously, out of her puffy, dusky, delicately-teated nipples onto her pale chest. My jaw drops at the slut’s natural beauty, her perfect, unspoilt, pallid face, her slash of pink lipstick, not even a hint of make-up, the most beautiful, wholesome slut I’ve ever met. My mouth waters at the prospect.
The slut closes her eyes, slants her head to one side, sliding her hand, her ivy-tattooed wrist, over her breast, her belly, her cute navel, as far as her underbelly, gripping her wide-mesh fishnet tights, exaggerating her long, creased, fawn, lip-sealed, folds of cleft, and speaks, in a foreign accent.
‘I have no home. I fled my country, entered this country without my husband. He’s dead, killed fighting to save my country. I am homeless. I live from hand to mouth. I fuck to pay for food.’
I notice the slut’s grazed ring fingers bear no wedding ring, just a dull grey nail varnish instead of the beige gloss on her other nails: homage to her dead soldier. I think of my friends. Livia: luxuriating on her sun lounger, about to give birth to her first baby. Daisy: making love to her lonesome, broken, craving girls at midnight on their adult chat sites. How lucky are they? Compared to this filthy, vagrant, widowed, shattered, heartbroken, unwilling, immigrant, slut?
The slut asks me if I would like to get my leg over to help buy her something to eat, pay for a warm jumper, tracksuit bottoms, cheap gloves, some socks from the charity shop. I say I might, on condition, the slut comes to my warm flat and has some hot tomato soup and toasted focaccia first, followed by fresh, healthy fruit, oat yogurt, instant coffee, and chocolate.
I have plenty of food to share.
*****
Minutes later, I am sitting at my kitchen table watching the slut sup soup and chew bread while I ask her probing intellectual questions.
‘How long have you worked as a prostitute?’ I ask her.
The slut speaks with her mouth full, drooling warm soup, half-masticated focaccia bits, on her chin. Some soup dribbles past her throat, over her pale chest, her heaving breasts. I lean forward and wipe the slut’s mouth, neck, chest and breasts with a wet wipe. The slut offers me no resistance. Keen to finish lunch and get me to get my leg over, maybe even make love to her, the slut replies: ‘I’ve fucked men and women on the streets since the war.’
I am intrigued, ‘On average, how many clients do you have sex within a typical day?’
The slut seems confused, ‘Clients? Typical?’
‘Mmmn, how many men and women do you fuck every day?’
‘Oh forty, fifty,’ the slut says, brightly proud of her athletic prowess, her endless staying power.
I recall Daisy’s giggly girl plea to me as we indulged in cybersex: I can’t help myself! Final question then, well, almost final, ‘Where do you prefer to have sex?’
The slut mops her soup bowl clean with her bread, peels a ripe banana, and thrusts it in her mouth sucking between mouthfuls of black cherry yogurt, ‘Behind garden walls, in alleyways.’
‘Don’t you get scared?’
‘Why should I be scared? I lost my husband, my home, my family, all of my belongings. I have nothing left in my life to be scared of,’ her voice pales, weaker, distraught, clearly upset, ‘No one left to love, no one left to live for.’
The slut rises and reaches for my hand, ‘Thank you for being so kind to me. I should go.’
‘No, don’t. I want you to stay.’
I clear the kitchen table, strip off my tracksuit, bra and lilac pants then lure the sad young slut with my all-over tanned body, my cute, petite breasts, disarmingly cherry flesh lips, and gently swaying hips.
‘Please, I’ve no one to live for either, well, no one who really cares about me and loves me for who I really am. Will you love me? Please.’
The slut’s face lights with a genuine loving, caring smile: she slips off her bolero, pulls off her stilettoes, peels down her fishnet tights, revealing her sensational body in all its splendour. I watch avidly as she climbs up on the kitchen table for me, full, naked, craving my sex, and plead to her, ‘Love me, slut.’
‘How would you like me to love you?’ she says.
‘Lie on your back with your head hanging over the edge, open your mouth, stare at my pussy.’
The slut reclines and lies on the table, her head pushed over the edge, ‘Like this you mean?’
‘Yes, like that.’
‘I can see your filthy fucking cunt,’ the slut remarks, crudely, ‘You’re all wet.’
‘I’m all wet coz I want you to lick me. Close your eyes.’
‘Okay, so I’ve closed my eyes, now what?’
‘Arch your body upwards so I can knead those fat breasts of yours.’
‘Like this?’
‘Mmmn, like that. You look beautiful. Stick your tongue out for me far as you can, let me squat on you. Oh, that feels lovely, stick your tongue inside me, slut, love me with your tongue, lick me, eat me, oh, god, I’m coming, coming!’
*****
I later write about what happens to my slut – and to me – on holiday in my own, immortal, naughty way:
My War Girl
Her eyes grow wide when she sees me smouldering on the beach. I bend my strong legs, peeling the soaking-wet bikini off my sweaty body. My breasts and belly are dripping with sweat. I’ve acquired a healthy tan on holiday. She stashes away her sunglasses, strips off her bra and pants and joins me on the beach mat. I smile approvingly at her incredible physique: her colossal pale breasts, her tanned rounded tummy: finding her underbelly appetising. Her pink lips demand closer inspection by my discerning tongue, as do her dusky, puffy, round, delicately-teated nipples.
A lust-lump forms in my throat as I spread my slender legs wide apart for her and say, ‘Rub some oil into me, would you?’
She places the bottle of virgin oil near my crotch. The squeezy bottle is half-full. She’ll need to apply its contents sparingly to make the fluid last. Calmly, she squeezes a blob of oil on her palm.
‘Lie on your front then, bitch,’ she says.
I tie back my hair with a pink elastic band and roll on my front, my chin resting comfortably on the backs of my hands. Excited, I grip the edge of the mat! One of my knees slid off! Although her tender touch will caress my full body she lightly covers my fleshy buttocks with a soft towel to protect them from the sun. She’ll soon strip it off me when she loves me.
‘Like this, you mean?’
She nods. Delicately, she glides her hands over my body, up, down my thighs, kneading warm oil into my raw flesh. Gently she rubs my skin using deep strokes, pressing her puffy breasts against mine. I feel her fiery hot breath on my cheeks, fleeting kisses on my ear, jaw, neck, and spine. Slowly, softly, her tongue licks my lower back. I quiver as she strips away the towel and spreads my buttocks. She massages the soft inner flesh of my arse-hole. Her fingers probe my arse!
‘How does that feel, bitch?’ she asks.
‘Mmmn. Feels good.’
I purr as she pulls her soiled fingers out of me. Roll on my back. Once I’ve settled, she lubricates me, pouring warm oil onto my tanned breasts: ruddy brown, puffy, from the sea’s kiss.
‘Be gentle with them, they’re sensitive,’ I plead.
I moan as she massages me, sensuously, using balm to lightly skim my breasts with the palms of her hands, pausing to tease out my stiff teats, circling my bronze nipples, sending blissful sensations tingling through my body. Breathing heavily, taking deep gasps, I splay my cunt for her, gripping folds of flesh in my fingertips. Her jaw falls at the sight of me, my raw steak flesh, my fuck-hole, displayed like this, totally uninhibited. My beauty intoxicates her. I lick my wet lips salaciously, eyes half-shut.
I hold her tight, enjoying her flesh rubbing against my soft belly, pressing her mouth open with my dewy lips. Our membranes adhere – bound in an infinitesimal moment of intimacy. We pause to catch our breaths and I cry: tears of joy moisten my fiery cheeks. My smile illuminates my face. My soft lips brush her ear.
I delve my hand inside her sore cunt. She strains, rearing for me. Her filthy cunt is speckled with slick jus. I rub her erect clit hard, briskly, with my thumb, then I lay back, and arrange myself for her.
‘Love me, Nadiya!’ I plead.
She licks my tummy, tasting the sea salt in my navel. With my leg hiked over her shoulder, she kisses my inner thigh, massaging my soft outer lips. By now, I’m all dreamy, dripping wet, smothered in oil. My hairy tuft is dusted with sand. She brushes it off me, kneels between my legs, gazing lovingly into my shiny eyes. I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.
My face flushes. My breasts swell. My heart races. I grit my teeth. I flex my hips. I arch my body upwards. Oh, fuck!
‘What’re you waiting for?’ I slur impatiently, ‘Want you.’
She grasps my fleshy buttocks with both hands, sinks her head between my thighs and fucks my cunt with her lambent tongue, teasing me with her deft tip, biting me, sucking on my veinous folds, pressing the full thrust of her langue deep inside my swollen fuck-hole. Till I scream my love for her. Till I push her out of me. Till I explode like a love bomb deep inside and come, and cream, and gush and squirt, all over her face!