A Study in Shame. Lucy Salisbury
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felt odd, and very dirty, leaving me nervous and excited as I looked myself over in the mirror. I looked cool, poised and perfectly respectable for a woman of my age, but in my head I was a tart and a cheap tart at that, the sort of girl who’d suck a stranger’s cock for a few pounds. Shades and a small red bag added the final touches and I was ready, but afraid to leave my flat and at the same time cross with myself because I knew perfectly well I didn’t have the guts to go through with it and get what I really wanted.
In the end I had to force myself to leave, but nobody took the slightest notice. Nearly everybody had left anyway, and only Security even acknowledged me, with a polite remark as I signed out. I’d escaped, but I was sure I could feel their eyes on me as I crossed the plaza, watching me walk, curious at the way my dress fell against my skin without showing any evidence of underwear, realising I had no knickers on and chuckling together over what that implied.
I felt good, for all my cowardice, naughty and free in a way I hadn’t for a very long time. The evening was warm and still, but fresh from rain the night before. I knew there was a pub on the riverfront beyond the depot I wanted to pass, the Wharfingers, although I’d never been there. That provided my excuse and I was soon walking alongside a long high fence with the depot beyond. A sign told me that it was a bonded warehouse, which meant Customs and Excise, high security and no chance whatsoever of getting in without a good reason.
The discovery brought me both relief and regret but made it easier to enjoy my fantasy as I walked on. I was now opposite the row of parked lorries, and their drivers. Closer now, I could see that most of the lorries were French, Spanish or Italian, belonging to long-haul freight carriers specialising in wine and spirits. That meant they were a very long way indeed from their wives or girlfriends, and safely anonymous. Surely none of them would turn down the offer of a blow job and a grope?
I walked straight into the huge man who had stepped out from behind a parked van, bounced back, tripped over an uneven paving stone and sat down hard on my bottom with my skirt up around my hips and my bare fanny on show to the world. Not that the world was watching, but he was: a giant of a man with a red beard and a blue boiler suit, his face set in surprise but his eyes locked firmly on the neatly trimmed triangle of fur between my legs for the split second before I’d managed to cover myself up. Both of us began to stammer apologies and I could feel the blood rushing to my face as I pulled myself to my feet and hurried on, only to slow almost immediately, with a single thought raging in my head, painfully embarrassing and yet too thrilling to be ignored. He’d seen my cunt.
All I had to do was turn around and speak to him. I’d make a few light-hearted remarks, apologise for being so clumsy. He’d apologise in turn, again, assuring me it was all his fault. We’d get talking. Maybe he’d offer to buy me a drink, and all the while he’d know I had no knickers on under my dress. He had to react, to take me into the back of his van or one of the alleys that led between the old warehouses across the road, where he’d make me suck his cock or pull up my dress and fuck me up against the wall. Nobody would ever know.
I ran.
Chapter Three
Three large glasses of white wine later and I was wishing I hadn’t.
‘Oh, Lucinda, you are such a little coward.’
I’d said it aloud but nobody paid any attention to me. The pub had been crowded when I got there, so much so that I’d been forced to perch myself on the low brick wall that fronted the river, with one arm on the railings and one bottom cheek on the bricks. It was far from comfortable but I felt I deserved it, a punishment for being so pathetic. I’d held it in my hands, the perfect opportunity to get what I needed and I’d chickened out. He’d been huge, maybe six foot six, and solidly built as well. There was a good chance he had a cock to match, a massive pole of pale smooth flesh rising from a nest of gingery hair.
‘You little idiot!’
A couple at the table nearest to me glanced across. She looked concerned. He looked amused. I gave them a frosty look, something I’m told comes naturally to me, and got up. The place was busy to say the least, with used plates and empty glasses everywhere, but I still took mine back to the bar and thanked the girl who’d served me. Polite behaviour was a habit drummed into me across the years until it was instinctive.
I didn’t take the direct route back to the building, because it meant passing the depot and I couldn’t bear the thought that the man might still be there and I knew I still didn’t have the courage to ask for what I wanted, or even talk to him in the hope that he would take the lead. As I reached the top of the alley that led down to the pub, I could see straight down the road. He was still there, loading boxes into his van, two at a time, his massive shoulders working under his shirt.
‘Go on, Lucinda, you can do it!’
At that moment a second man appeared from beyond the van, older, balding and carrying a clipboard. I gave up. Evidently it wasn’t my evening. I crossed the road and started up an alley lined with little shops and restaurants, thinking all the while. He’d seen my cunt, a big rough man, a man like a Viking. That was another of my favourite fantasies, to be caught alone on a beach by Viking raiders. I’d imagine being picked up by the biggest of them, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, carried on board their longship, stripped, fucked.
That was how the big man ought to have handled me. One peep between my legs and the outcome would have been decided. He’d have reached down, lifted me with the same ease he handled the boxes he’d been loading and put me over his shoulder with my bum in the air. I’d have struggled, just for form’s sake, beating my fists on his back and telling him to put me down, calling him a beast and a bastard. His response would have been to flip up my dress and show off my knickerless bottom to the world, with my cunt showing between my thighs.
I’d have been dumped unceremoniously into the van, spread out on the floor with my legs apart. He’d have unzipped his boiler suit to pull out a truly massive set of balls and a monstrous cock, already half stiff. I’d have surrendered at the mere sight, taking him in my mouth as he straddled me. As I sucked he’d have pulled my dress up, taking my bra with it, to leave me spread naked beneath him in nothing but my bright-red heels and the dishevelled mess of my pretty clothes. Anybody who happened to pass would have been able to see, but I’d have kept my legs open, making a thoroughly rude show of myself.
When he was hard he’d have entered me, sliding easily in up my wet hole and making the show I was giving to the crowd now gathered in the street ruder still. My legs would be rolled up, my penetrated cunt stretched taut on the shaft of his massive cock as he pumped into me with his balls slapping between my well-spread bottom cheeks and the tight glistening hole of my anus exposed to the vulgar stares.
‘That would be so nice.’
This time there was nobody to hear me talking to myself. The light was beginning to fade and there were only a few people about, with most of the shops shut. One wasn’t, a curious-looking place with the single large window painted bright pink and decorated with a single word in gaudy gold paint – Harlot. It was a sex shop, the Pink Pussycat, and I found myself automatically quickening my step as I thought of dirty old men leering at pictures and videos of naked girls. Fifty yards on I stopped.
There was a café and I ordered a double espresso, sipping at the hot dark liquid as I pretended not to be looking at the door of the sex shop. An idea had occurred to me. I needed to make up for my cowardice. I even felt I needed to be punished in some shameful way. I badly needed to be naughty. What better way than forcing myself to go into the Pink Pussycat and purchase some embarrassing article?
I’d be safe, as long as nobody who knew me saw me go in or come out, and the chances had to be tiny. There was still a risk, but that was as exciting as it was frightening and it also stirred something rebellious within me. I had to do it.
‘Go on, Lucinda, you little coward. It’s the perfect punishment.’
It was, so horribly embarrassing that it would be sure to bring my already powerful arousal to the point at which I could no longer hold back. Maybe