Am I proud of this?, a short story by GutterrhymesEsq. Date added: 2012-08-17. Times viewed: 8355.
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- Intro: Het, oral, pissing; A runner comes across a homeless alcoholic and gets some fantastic sex
Am I proud of this?
By
Gutter Rhymes
The warm Indian Ocean breeze lifted my hair blowing it back as I ran down the Victoria Embankment, obviously not the one in my native London but the one in Durban. I often wondered why my colonialist ancestors had so little creativity, naming each and every place and street in the colonies after places back home instead of asking the natives for new names. In any case, Durban, that warm and humid metropolis with its splendid cultural kaleidoscope of Indians, Zulus and the ubiquitous white man. The city in the province fondly called the “Last Outpost” by nostalgic Brits. All in all a really pleasant place to spend the winter months. The coastal belt is evergreen and the air is clean and warm. In July the winds are quite fresh which is the reason why I am in Durban every June and/or July, I love sailing my 27 foot cutter, aptly named Nandi, after the mother of that psychopath Shaka Zulu, whom paradoxically I admire much.
As I approached the harbour mouth I decided to turn right and run along Maritime Place past the yacht clubs. Five in the morning and the sun still had another one and a half hour before dragging itself reluctantly up from the Ocean. The road was well lit and there were no cars so I had a leisurely run up towards the Bartel Arts Trust (BAT) Centre. The BAT centre was my favourite hangout, very cosmopolitan and a place to meet artists and like-minded people, enjoy a reefer of “Durban Poison” the local weed variety and often, “get lucky” and pick up a lay.
As I approached the underground pedestrian tunnel over which a railway line passes, I saw a figure staggering around with the typical alcoholic waddle of the homeless people who live in the pedestrian tunnel. In winter, most of the vagrants would be “bergies”, Cape Town homeless who trek to Durban to escape the atrocious weather there, cold rainy and windy. As I approached the tunnel entrance, I took a good look at the vagrant, it was a woman, probably in her twenties.
She steadied herself against a pillar, hitched up her rags and pulled down her trousers before spewing a gush of urine. I saw the fast stream as it came out of her cunt . Her cunt and her whole bare bum were clear in my view. I cursed good-naturedly under my breath.
“Why is she pissing in my face, lousy bitch”
And lousy she probably was, literally and otherwise. When I was perhaps 8 metres away from her, she adjusted her clothes and looked in my face. She had no front teeth at all, not on her upper jaw, none on her lower jaw. She had some minor bruises on her face and she had a healing left black eye. I slowed right down.
“Meniere (sir in their language), give us 2 rand please man, I wanna buy some bread” she said in a surprisingly clear voice.
“You wanna buy bread or booze…or maybe some zol?” I asked her using the word for weed.
“Don’ be laik thet men, please help” she said in the annoying Cape accent which spoils their otherwise famous sense of humour.
I stopped to do some muscle stretches holding on to the pillar she had used for support as she spewed what was quite a large volume of urine. I decided to help her. I opened my zipper waist bag and looked for coins but all I had was one rand, and a roll of notes.
“You can give us more than 2 rand if you have, won’t kill me”
She giggled, showing me her bare gum. Having no front teeth made her look younger.
“You sound like a pommie…are you from England?”
I was impressed by her knowledge of accents, no matter how I try to disguise my accent to try and avoid irritating the Afrikaners, I still can’t lose my London accent. The Afrikaners still haven’t forgiven us for the Anglo-Boer war more than a century ago, but they expect their African country men to forgive them for apartheid which is not entirely dead!
“You are right, I am a Londoner”
“So give us some pounds then, I can change and get lots of rands” she said, rather persuasively.
I couldn’t take the thought of her jet of urine, and her exposed buttocks off my mind. My dick was feeling funny, not erect, but not asleep either. But her smell was a little overwhelming, a mix of tobacco, booze and pure filth.
“Give me twenty rand and I will give you a nice blow job, or I can go wash my puss in the sea, there and you can naai me, I have a condom. I keep a condom in case someone wants to rape me”
Now, this was a lot of information, delivered too quickly and it made some sense.
“Hang on lady, are you a hooker or just homeless”
“Don’ be laik thet men, I give you a lekker blow job”
She sounded serious. She pulled up her rags and secured them under her chin, and pulled down pants. I looked around nervously to make sure no one could see this unfolding drama. I looked at the street lamps to make sure there were no cameras. Then I looked at her wispy pubic hair and the delicate cunt lips. She raised her chin and her rags dropped, covering her pussy.
“Follow me” I said
I walked behind the little shack at the entrance to the jetty for boarding “Sarie Marais” harbour cruises. I knocked on the wooden wall and there was no response. Great, it was empty. I pulled down my jogger shorts and my ill-disciplined penis was well erect. I offered it to her.
“You want me to suck you with a condom?”
“Just suck quickly before somebody comes”
“Relex men..no one will see us..and no one blerry cares if you naai me”
I had forgotten that word “naai”, Afrikaans for fuck. That word never fails to make my dick harder.
She put my dick in her mouth and went on to give me the best blow-job, up to that point in my 51 years of life. No front teeth to interfere, just smooth gliding in and out. No deep throat. It was heavenly!
“Goodness me…you are good at this, blow job thing, yeah girl, suck me some more”
That was me.
“I started blowing guys when I was seven years…” she licked and sucked my dick as if it was some hearty breakfast.
“Give me the condom”
“No I will put it on for you”
She put the condom on her lips and did the local whores’ favourite manoeuvre, she rolled it onto my dick with her lips. Absolutely fantastic.
“Bend over”
She held on to the shack door handle and exposed her lower back and buttocks to me. She was quite skiny. She was a tiny girl, like most Cape Coloured girls. I spat on my fingers and smeared the spittle on her cunt, wiping my hands on the wooden shack.
Bingo! I rammed my fat cock right into her hot cunt. Very nice pussy it was, it had character. Nothing I can describe, but the feel was new, it was delicious.
“Naai me..I am used to being raped…so I wanna enjoy this, naai me with you London dick”
She is the one who “naaied” me. I just stood firm as she bumped back into my dick, twisting her slender waist and hitting my crotch with her firm buttocks. What a shag!
I fucked her for 3 minutes then off-loaded. It was a thunderous one. My whole back and butt cramped as I came, I gasped for breath as I let out a scream of pleasure.
“I cum for you now men. Dankie Meniere, baaie dankie men”
She voiced her appreciation as she had her orgasm.
I gave her a two one hundred rand noted and she shed tears of joy. I didn’t wait for any pleasantries. I ran home, put my running clothes in a heavy duty garbage bag, placed it in the bin outside my Morningside penthouse. I shaved my groin and went for breakfast with friend and his wife.
Am I proud of what happened? No, definitely not. Do I regret it happened? No, to be honest, no. Would I do it again, no…simply because, I won’t find that same sweet-cunt-great-blowjob-homeless alcoholic ever again.
End
© Gutter Rhymes
August 2012
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