Paganini's Tale, Chapter 4

Larry waited for the light to change to "walk," watching a
sixteen-year-old punkette diddle with her hair beside him. The
thin cotton top she wore was almost translucent, torn in
places, revealing the soft pink skin of a young girl's torso;
behind the shirt he could see the outside of her aureoles, the
slight out-dimple of little tits. Black leather pants coming
down to mid-calf, black fishnet from ankle to spiked heel.
   A tough-looking kid. "So whattaya looking at, mister?"
   He was surprised by her voice: harsh, brassy. Surprised even
that she spoke to anyone on the street. In the city, that just
wasn't done.
   Larry tried to be casual. "Only you, my dear. You're
beautiful in some indefinable way."
   "You wanna get your rocks off thinking about fucking a young
thing like me, you go ahead, but leave me out if it." She spit
on the ground and walked into the street, balancing out of the
way of a passing taxi, then darting between oncoming cars, her
little ass swinging as she ran.
   "Hey, I didn't mean..." he began to say, but stopped. She was
gone, off into the thin crowd.
   "Walk," the sign said, and so walk he did. Across the street,
feeling stupid. How did he get himself into those sorts of
things? He couldn't figure it out. He hadn't <meant> for her to
see him looking her over. Or had he?  There had been a time
when he'd looked at a girl that way and she'd turned to him and
smiled. "Like what you see?" she had asked.
   He'd nodded. "You're very beautiful," he said, and within
moments she was six inches from him. "I just saw my boyfriend
fucking some little slut in his room," she said, "and if he can
do it, then so can I. You wanna fuck me?"
   "Well, uh..." he'd stammared, and when he saw the disgusted
look on her face he got up the gumption to unstick his mouth:
"Absolutely. I haven't seen anybody as fuckable in a long
time."
   He'd read once that compliments were good strategy for
picking up girls.
   "Okay," she said with determination, "then let's go to it."
She led him into a restaurant, back past the tables, the
booths, the lunchers eating their Special #2, toward the
bathrooms.
   "Wait a minute," he whispered to her as she shut the women's
door, "what if someone comes in?"
   She looked him straight in the eye as she unzipped his fly.
"Would you interrupt a couple fucking in the bathroom? No,
you'd smile to yourself and go to wait until they were done.
Then you'd pee. It's only sensible."
   She'd got his cock free; in the fluorescent glare it shined,
its purple head tight as the head of a snare drum. She <was>
pretty; he could see her in the mirror unbuttoning her skirt.
She peeled her pantyhose down, stepped out of them, then
grabbed his cock again. "Good sized," she said to him. "Work it
around, stretch my cunt out, so I can tell my boyfriend what a
fucking ramrod I screwed. I don't mind exaggerating a little."
   Larry had been befuddled, standing in the women's tiled
bathroom, by the girl's attitude to him. It didn't matter to
this girl if he was short or thin, muscular or scrawny,
handsome or disgusting. He was a cock to fuck, and that was
all. A tool. A means to an end.
   He tried to think about whether that bothered him, but he was
distracted by the girl's inner thighs as she hopped on the sink
counter and spread her legs. Slight bulges just past her labia.
Like fingers crooking, beckoning: come on in.
   His cock strained toward that cunt as if by its own accord.
He advanced on her slowly, but her heels hooked his back and
pulled him at her. She grabbed his prick like it was a doorknob
and pushed it into her, letting out a low moan, forcing him
into her with her heels.
   "Yeah," she had said, "that's good, that's real good, as good
as that motherfucker's cock felt in that slut, yeah, fuck me,
fuck me good, I'll get that motherfucker back, you're doing it
to me, my cunt's my own, and I'll fuck whoever I please,
whenever I want, if he's going to fuck his own little slut
nymphos, yeah, push it in, yeah, fuck me..."
   Her pants got rapid, and his began spasmotically jerking into
her; he let himself stop thinking about doing a good job. It
was clear that her satisfaction wasn't coming from being well
laid. The act of fucking was enough. So fuck he did, pushing
his rod into her at angles that stimulated him best. He held
onto her hips and pushed her twat onto his prong like he wished
he could do with his wife, Alice, but didn't dare. He pinched
her tits, made her gasp as he squeezed. Alice wouldn't like
that, would tell him he was hurting her.
   But that coed, that day, had stopped being a threat. She had
wanted to be just a body to him, since he was just a cock to
her. And it changed the feeling of the orgasm. His jism spouted
hard, into her alien cunt, filling crevices around a cervix
he'd never felt and never would feel again, into a slippery quim
existing for its own sake. To be fucked and receive whatever it
wanted. He watched them both in the mirror, her back arched to
receive him, his face reddened by the exertion.
   And then the door opened. A fat fifty-year old woman, clearly
Bible Belt material, pushed open the door. She looked down at
the joining of their two bodies, pubic hair entwined, two
inches of Larry's shaft visible, the smell of musk and juices
thick in the air, and the woman stared.
   Larry's come couldn't be stopped, and he spurted into her
hard. The woman continued staring, as if mesmerized, her
breathing shallow, her eyes wide. She held the door open with
her hand one moment longer, before suddenly letting fly an ear-
piercing scream.
   Instantly Larry and the girl's feet were on the floor,
Larry's cock still dripping jism. Pantyhose and shoes quickly
retrieved, the girl and Larry ran past the gasping woman, past
aghast lunchers stopping in mid-bite as the two fled, Larry
hitching up his pants as his legs pumped. They had split up at
the door; he never saw her again.
   Now, walking toward the post office on the surprise errand,
Larry smiled at the memory, and noticed his cock was
semihard, amplified by needing to piss.
   He thought about finding a restaurant or something, but
they'd become pretty sticky about non-customers using their
bathrooms in most of the cafes in the city. And there were no
McDonald's around.
   He passed an alley, and on an impulse turned into it. Off the
alley, twenty feet back, he found a miniature alley between
buildings, littered with MD 20-20 and beer bottles. He unzipped
his pants to relieve himself.
   "Everytime I see you, you have your cock hanging out," the
woman's voice said from behind him. This time, he didn't turn
more than just his head. It was the vampirish woman from the
night before, this time dressed in a black and nightblue
jumpsuit.
   Larry's first reaction was one of irritation, but then he
realized who was speaking. He had almost begun to piss, and
stopping was painful. Yet the pain wasn't all that bad; he was
already excited from his replay of his memory of the woman in
the cafe, and now the memory of the night before superceded it.
   Seeing her in daylight let him realize just how darkly
beautiful she was. Lips a dark magenta, eyes so brown as to
seem black. Her hips were small, but well muscled. Thin waist,
and pert little tits which had once been firm and nearly
nonexistent, but had been womanized into breasts by experience.
Her feet were encased in black half-boots with stilletto heels.
   "Didn't I tell you," she said, "that your cock was mine
whenever I wanted it?"
   He smiled, nodded, and let loose his piss, amused at the
irony.
   "<Stop that this instant!>" she commanded, and Larry was so
surprised that he stopped. His urethra burned.
   "Good boy," she purred. "You may piss now."
   He didn't particularly care for being told when to piss, but
he had to piss so badly he let loose, spraying the wall.
   "You can piss farther than you can come," she stated. "This
time, though, we're going to put that little pisser of yours to
good use."