CHP 6 — IN WHICH MICKY IMPLEMENTS HIS FIENDISH PLAN.
So that was that. The whole marvellous game was in the shitter, before it had even properly begun to get messy. And no one was to blame but me. I’d been caught in the sneaky act, I’d been called out, and I’d paid the price. I’d lost sweet Carla Regaliza. And that was that.
Feeling like a low down schmuck, the moment I awoke the next morning, I transferred the money for the clothes and emailed a probable final note, exhorting Carla to either take the job or keep the cash, no hard feelings, sorry baby, kiss kiss.
And then I stood at my living room window and contemplated how empty the world had become. Not even a biscuit. The sun shone, but the landscape it illuminated looked parched and thin, like a faded photograph inaccessibly lost behind a dusty pane of glass in the window of a shop that had closed down years ago. What a fucking downer.
All morning I paced my flat, urgently checking my phone every few seconds, muttering under my breath about how impossible it would be to replace her, describing in detail my failures as a basic human creature, filing yet another example of my idiocy on an endless shelf of similar woeful tales, too engrossed to even feed the cat, making mighty lists of the numerous reasons why things could never ever work out in a crazy miraculous way for the middle-aged fool in his torrid dressing gown. Coffee mug in one hand, vape in the other, scowling in grief — not a pretty picture for anybody unlucky enough to be looking up at my window from the street — I existed in a distant busy haze; a pitiful wreckage forever dashed on the rocks of his own sorrowful wrecking; another downturned face amongst the lost.
This damned Spanish woman. What was becoming of me? Really, I mean, I loved it, but actually what the fucking fuck?
Like the cosmic herald of a celestial event, the sound of my phone alerted me to the arrival of an email from my goddess – an echo that had travelled throughout all of time to disrupt my senses at that precise nanosecond. The shock made me fling the phone across the room — the highlight of the action for the lucky voyeuristic passer-by. Moments later I was perched on my sofa’s edge squinting at the little screen; almost blinded by what I saw there.
R: “I will buy the clothes tonight probably. We still have a deal because it’s good money. Please don’t make me regret this. I like the idea of collaborating with you.”
The relief was instant — the heavy dark sucking void deep at the centre of my guts promptly vaporizing into nothing. To the outside observer, a baffled yell, followed by a crude interpretive dance, signalled that the game was back on, and that Micky Feather and Rosy Glow were back in it.
After much gratitude and further apology on my sorry part, all was once again well. The depth had returned to life. And I couldn’t help entertaining the thought that the chances of us actually fucking were less slim at that moment than they were at a similar moment the day before. And if nothing else, that was a cheering thought.
Looking out of the window there now stood a man of surety and pride, solid in his stance, confident that his next breath would not be his last, and firm in the belief that his name on that little Spanish arse had the potential to earn millions. I looked out across the beautiful late September highway and surveyed the busy concrete, finding a spot suitable to my purposes beneath a huge graffiti covered support. I’m standing there when a limo squeals past. The back door opens and out flies Rosy in a cute little green summer dress, all legs akimbo with tiny white knickers and a lovely wet stain, and those perfect tits popping free — I catch her as she shoots in my direction.
Before she has time to brush the hair from her face she springs up and yells after the disappearing limo,’¡Pero qué coño! . . . ¡Hijo de puta!’ Then she turns back towards me, adjusts her dress, and plucks a small black handbag out of the gutter. ‘Que pasa?,’ she says, looking up at me, her green eyes almost black in the shadow of the underpass.
What was going on was this: Rosy was going to accompany me to the grassy slope, just a short scramble from the roadside, where out of view of all but the most skilled of drone operators, I was going to lift the hem of her ripped little dress and yank her dirty panties off. Then I was going to bend her over my lap, holding her by the back of her neck, and finger her into a clucking frenzy; wiping piss and cum all over her shining butt cheeks and inner thighs; in fact generally spattering her all over with her own delicious cum. And once I’d got her all messy and smelly I was going to unbutton my jeans and give her a good solid fucking; her face in the grass, her dress hiked over her head, her arms held secure against her luscious naked back, with her firm young tits shuddering at every slamming thrust from my single-minded cast-iron cock.
Then I might roll her over and wipe the filthy gusset of her ripped knickers all over her mouth and nose, before I push the wettest pissiest creamiest part between her lips, and then kiss her deeply; the taste of her cummy little hole all over our tongues as I continue filling her leaking cunt with my savage erection, thumping her against the hard ground as the sound of a thousand cars passing unseen all around us drowns out her muffled screams.
Leaving her sticky wadded up knickers in her protesting mouth, I then put her ankles over my shoulders and fuck her fast and deep like an insane jockey on the home straight; gripping her by the waist; her upper body a wild blur of unhinged tits and bared teeth. As she cums she throws her head back stretching her beautiful neck as far as it will go, spitting the panties out and howling from that place deep down inside herself where the tip of my cock was brutally displacing her quaking liver.
Before Rosy has time to realise that I’ve withdrawn my pulsating member from her convulsing torso, I’m pumping her mouth full of spunk, all the while keeping her cumming by fingering her pussy and arsehole with my finger and thumb; appreciatively watching her cough back great thick gobs of cum, dancing about in my hand like the filthy little short-circuiting strumpet that she is.
As my cock slowly finishes twitching in Rosy’s messy mouth, I am gratified to see that the frothy ring of pussy cream that formerly encircled the hairy base of my shaft now covers her lips; mixing with my cum it drips from her chin. Unplugging my fingers from her quivering holes, I take my cock out of her face and wipe it clean on her dress, as moaning she dribbles a pool of goo into the grass beside her sodden knickers . . .
Immediately I set to work, creating a detailed set of illustrated instructions for Carla to refer to whilst taking the photographs. For every image I supplied a crude diagram showing position and juxtaposition, with an accompanying note explaining how the clothes should be worn — four different outfits to be removed step by smutty step.
As I worked, frantically pawing away at my laptop, I emailed Carla intermittently with questions. Would she be happy to piss herself? Did she own any sex toys? Etc.
Each morning I awoke, deeply hung-over, feeling anxious about the whole thing; wondering if it was wrong to ask this wonderful girl to do all these filthy things? I mean, the dirty shit I was requesting her do was frankly a scandal; and she was only nineteen! And me a fifty year old silhouette at a distant window.
But that didn’t stop me emailing the complete instructions to her the very instant they were ready.
I was aching for this impossible woman like I’d never ached my whole sorry life through. And truly, it felt like the very best kind of insane.
Waiting for the planets to align, I thought of nothing but Carla, losing myself in memories and emotions that had not been present in my life for decades – the most powerful sensation of ecstatic joy washing over me; bathing me in dreamlike notions about fucking her, fucking her hard, fucking her gormless in an infinite variety of extremely challenging positions, all of them guaranteed to make her cream and growl and buck and cum, and cum . . . I was a crazy old man, with only one thing on his mind. Carla Regaliza Vargas!
I realised that it was not improbable that Carla had many men enthralled like me. A bunch of hopeless dolts, living day to day on crumbs from her beguiling lap, gladly parting with mountains of cash for just one sniff of her super magical pussy — the scent of life itself. I cared not jot one. I was in to the finish — which continues to be a stranger place than I was ever expecting.
The sun shines through Rosy’s summer dress, delineating her femininity like an X-rated x-ray. I lie there as she lowers her glistening pussy onto my drowsy smiling face. Her sweaty little fuckhole crackles as her knees part and she squats with her taut genitals hovering directly above my mouth — if I’d had a moustache it would have been tickling her clit. Reaching up I grasp her hips and pull her down, at the same time straining my snarling head upwards, devouring her cunt and arsehole like a rabid werewolf licking the last chunk of food from a can; smacking my lips I take a breath and then dive in for more. Rosy whimpers above — her erratic respiration making her nipples hard against the thin green cotton of her flimsy dress; her tits perfectly amplifying the tortured trembling of her slavering pussy below.
Reaching up higher I hook my thumps beneath her soaking wet armpits and force her backwards, so that we arrive in a position where I am sitting on the litter strewn grass with Rosy’s cunt in my face as she lies back between my legs, staring into the blazing blue sky, her arms beneath her back, reaching out for my cock; her busy hands stroking my twitching hard on and massaging my tightened balls. Keeping her in place with my knees I spread her holes wide with my hands and listen to the air rushing in through her sloppy lips before I plunge my fingers into her and squeeze her from every angle in and out, rolling her perineum between my finger and thumb; her screams and squeals echoing against the overpass, like birdsong in a bird-less place.
The deep sticky gloopy sounds booming out of Rosy’s tightly stretched fuck hole suddenly have me reaching for a handy nine inch rubber cock and a vibrating clitoral disruptor — the kind of vibrator, the merest touch from which can shatter bullet-proof glass.
Pumping away at Rosy’s upturned cunt, watching intently as the thick ridges of the rubber phallus churn her into a sputtering frenzy, I suddenly add the buzzing head of the disruptor to the mix; pressing it hard against her fully exposed clit — the tone of the vibrator changing to a lower pitch as it makes contact with her reverberating pelvis.
A moment before Rosy gives up the fight with herself and cums like a common whore, I rip out the rubber cock — pop! — cast aside the vibrator — which causes Rosy’s pussy to take an audible breath — and fasten my mouth wide over her entire vulva, licking her clit like lightning across the winning line; thick creamy discharge and piss floods my mouth as I take a swig and fill my gullet before thrusting forward over the bitches dirty little body, bearing down on her startled face, dripping a gushing mouthful into her coughing throat before her cunt has even stopped clenching.
Being that my rampant cock is loitering in the vicinity, I then slip it forcefully into Rosy’s pussy hole – just to keep her interested — filling out the same route that the devastating rubber cock had been carving mere seconds before; the raw walls of Rosy’s gentle insides, now being scraped senseless by the granite dome of my insatiable fuck-stick.
In a moment of inspiration, I flip Rosy over, making her pose with her arse in the air whilst I attack her G-spot with two determined fingers, very soon making her squirt with such precision I manage to get two direct hits in the centre of a clown’s forehead on a half-ripped poster adhered to a disarticulated section of corrugated wall panelling leaning against a nearby hut . . .
So then, I waited.
And, about a week later, word came through that all the clothes had arrived, but the ball-gag was delayed — damnit!
To pass the time I wondered how I would spend my new found riches — my book surely destined for the literary heights — intermittently checking Carla’s panty page for fresh images; photographs that I might find useful in my quest for ultimate knowledge.
In one image Carla was posing in a Captain America thong. It didn’t click with me to begin with, but . . . could it be, could it be connected to the picture of me aged four dressed as Captain America on my Instagram page? Was Carla saying something to me with the pictures? Sending me a secret message? . . . It was seriously getting more interesting day by fucking day! I wanted this teenager so much I was losing my shitting sanity! I wanted to consume every atom of her!
Yet, it did occur to me that having learned nothing in my fruitless effort to draw out the inscrutable Carla Regaliza Vargas, I had completely revealed myself; enabling her to completely consume me; until there was nothing left but thoughts of her — adrift on the woeful river of lost souls, awaiting arrival at the dread shore, where I would pay the price and learn who I was. A voice I’d never heard before (but would no doubt recognize) would tell me the score. It had become like the undergoing of a mystery cult rite. To be reborn newly smutty, or die. The whole fabric and structure of my reality breaking down into its tiniest most indivisible parts.
And then, before I really knew what was happening, the actual day arrived. Carla emailed me to let me know that all was ready. Immediately I wired her payment.
And, waited some more.
Taking Rosy into a nearby workman’s hut I rip her dress open from the neck to the crotch, exposing her tits with a gasping bounce of nervous excitement, her cute hands instinctively covering her hairy little bush, her legs crossing like she needs to pee. Brushing the light dress off her sweaty shoulders, as it falls like lead to the floor, I grab the back of her neck and bend her over a handy trestle, securing her wrists and ankles with bright green rope. All the while I’m tying her into position I fiddle about with her most sensitive places; pinching her hard little nipples, rubbing her greasy little clit, flicking her dripping little labia, and poking a fingertip in and out of her sweaty little anus. Soon she’s just about ready for a nice big cock.
My cock had been hard ever since the limo door flung open, and now was my chance to fuck this angel into a state of transcendence. Sent by unknown powers to bend over and take it like a smutty little wank whore, I felt it my sacred duty to give her nothing less than it all. Spreading her sweaty glistening cheeks, her vagina opening like a red hot flower, I sink my cock into her like Excalibur being thrust into the heart of the Earth. And then I fuck her, rigorously and expertly, covering the entire surface area of her highly sensitive interior with the extreme ministrations of my forcefully probing dick; targeting her cervix to light up the back of her eyes like a match being struck in her burning uterus; gripping her hips and circling her round and round on the end of my flaming knob; pushing a couple of fingers into her anus and pressing down; ramming her tiny evaporating body until I feel a steady stream of hot piss squirting out of her against my straining belly and dribbling from my emptying balls as my pulsing cock unloads wave after wave of pressurized spunk into her overflowing fuck hole.
Withdrawing with a sloppy schlupping sound, my cock still hard as global economics, I stand with the tip of my cum slick penis grazing Rosy’s lips. Looking down in horror as I thrust slowly forward, filling her mouth with my dirty great rod, Rosy is surprised to find herself eagerly opening up and swallowing every filthy inch. As my wet balls press against her chin and my sweaty belly flattens her nose, Rosy gurgles her unintelligible gratitude . . .
After a week I could wait no longer and sent a text — yeah, now we were texting – to which the ache in my heart responded with news of a slight delay; to which I responded with an honest yearning (M: ‘Just know that I am like a starving man waiting for a feast!’), to be rewarded with a single holding image of the goddess naked (almost) on her bed — OMFG!
And then more waiting — a half-life in a torturous limbo land – waiting for that glorious pinging sound; calling card of the universe.
In desperation I delved into Lao Tzu — in the past his great wisdom had been known to rest my mind. He said, ‘Have in your hold the great image and the empire will come to you.’
Then I watched Deja Vu, again. Reaching through an impossible screen to grasp an unattainable desire.
Was there no narrative that would see me and little miss Vargas in the sack? – or would they all?
More time passed. Then a text from Carla to say she would be doing the photos the following day, with her boyfriend handling the camera work. Through a fixed grin I wondered if the enormity of the task was only now being fully realised — on all our parts.
‘. . . There I was, about to go into the pornography business with a nineteen year old Spanish girl I’d never met. The kind of senorita who hit you right in the hip pocket and made you wonder if there was any point to anything beyond the stain in her underpants . . . Slugging back the last of the bourbon, I decided to kick back and wait for my phone to ping; and boy did it ever ping! . . .’