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Abandon all preconceived notions about narrative and storytelling. Abandon any idea of plot. Embrace the smell of semen. Welcome… to Smutville.
If you don’t enjoy watersports or deranged hypersmut, turn back now. You may also leave me an angry comment, but that probably won’t save you, now will it?
To my fellow members of the Society of Pervert-Watchers,
Observe the strange creature lately sighted roaming our streets at night. We assume she has a family, friends, a job. No one has ever asked her. Most people, naturally, flee from the sight of a woman in shiny black latex emerging from various public bathrooms, pubs, and petrol stations, streaked with semen and piss. We assume she means no harm, as we have heard no complaints from those souls accosted by her in those bathrooms and places of business. None of those souls have asked her either.
I undertook to follow the strange creature on her rounds this last Saturday night. It was not a simple thing to sight her the first time, but I had it on the authority of my friend Peter that she can often be found squatting behind the 7/11 on Mitchell Street around seven-thirty. The crisp autumn air rustled through the trees, and under the sodium lamps the world had taken on the warm sepia glow I have always associated with this time of year.
I was warmly attired for the brisk evening air, in a brown wool coat and a very nice scarf given to me by my aunt for my 31st birthday, which was rather longer ago than I care to disclose. I had chosen sensible shoes for the evening, rather than my usual heels, as a long night of pursuit on four inchers did not seem wise. In my bag I had my usual accoutrements – my camera, my journal, a flask each of coffee and of brandy, and lastly my taser and my dictaphone (having learned, after one unfortunate event, which is which by feel alone.) I was, in a word, admirably prepared, so I thought, to stalk the strange creature haunting our streets, who I have decided to call the Latex Lady.
She first appeared two months earlier, emerging from the notorious Musgrove Park ‘tearoom’. Naturally, such a report was difficult to credit, even to those of us experienced in seeking out new perversions. What possible use could a woman have for the tearoom scene (us distaff members of the Order not withstanding)? Nonetheless, there she had been – crawling on all fours out into the dawn, her otherwise flawless latex shell streaked in drying semen. She disappeared, our witness said, into the trees.
I rounded the corner of Mitchell Street and Dawkins at exactly 6:57PM, and made my way to the back lot behind the 7/11. The garish neon sign shed no light in the narrow space of dumpsters and cardboard boxes (within which I promptly concealed myself), and only the flicker of a flourescent bulb over the back door contested with stunningly clear display of stars and the silver moonlight.
The Latex Lady next appeared a fortnight later, in blurry cellphone footage shot in the men’s bathroom of the Mary Molloy Pub and Restaurant, the local Irish pub. There, she was writhing with apparent ecstasy in the urinal trough, her face obscured by a gas mask with tinted lenses, its breathing port connected to a long hose that disappeared into a peculiar little box on her hip, which I surmise to be filled with poppers or some other inhalant. The pattern was established: the Latex Lady has a preference for men’s rooms and urine play.
That raised the question of why Peter had sighted her several times in this dingy little backlot. What was it about this space that could tempt her away from her preferred haunts? I sat and waited to find the answer, recording the space with my night vision camera.
At 7:21, she appeared, slipping into frame from the left side of the backlot, which opened bursa escort up onto Lorikeet Lane, a small dead-end alleyway (that, I knew, was of no significance: there are several gaps between buildings there that a person can easily fit through). The black latex gleamed under the moonlight as she strutted into the center of the backlot on terrifyingly high stilletto heel, and dropped into a squat, facing the door of the 7/11. She was as the blurry phone footage had suggested: slender, with exaggerated breasts and hips (courtesy, no doubt, of both the corset of her skintight outfit and of padding underneath), long legs, and long blonde hair spilling out from underneath the straps of her gas mask. Though I do not share that predilection, I had prepared myself for the hunt, and recognized it as the Israeli M4A1 thanks to the drinking tube and the distinctive ant-eater’s muzzle.
What, I wondered once again, drew her here? I need not have spent the effort on the thoughts, for it was only a matter of minutes before the back door of the 7/11 swung open and the attendant stepped out. I watched with bated breath, heart pounding in my chest, as he approached her, unzipped his trousers, and allowed her to masturbate him. It was almost disappointingly mundane, if obscene. The Latex Lady jerked him with some vigour using both hands, her gloves squeaking over his throbbing cock as she did, until he ejaculated with a great shudder, his cum smearing into the gloves. Wordlessly, he tucked himself away, and went back inside. I made a note to myself to return the next day and interrogate him – this was clearly no passing encounter, no first experience.
The Latex Lady waited for the door to latch shut before she raised the thin drinking tube attached to the side port in her mask and struggled to suck the semen through it. It was not an easy process – there was not quite enough liquid to provide good flow, resulting in the tube hollowing on itself repeatedly – but after a long minute she seemed to shudder with satisfaction, then rose to her feet and sauntered out of the backlot and onto Mitchell Street. I, in turn, waited to ensure she would not detect me, and followed.
The Latex Lady strode boldly down the sidewalk, as though this was simply an ordinary Saturday. I followed rather more diffidently, not wishing to be observed observing her. Middle age is a cloak only so far – it functions best in a crowd, or in various public spaces where one might expect service; on near abandoned side streets it is far less effective. We passed The Tropicana Cafe (shuttered, as usual, at 6PM) and the waning bookstore of Mrs. Evans, passing through to the public toilet block. Without checking, the Latex Lady entered the men’s room.
I, naturally, followed with some trepidation. One woman in the gents is strange enough, two is perversely unnatural, and yet… I could hardly observe the Latex Lady from the outside. I followed behind her, my cheeks aflame and my heart pounding hard in my throat, into that grungy three-room space. The air was redolent with stale urine and semen despite the ventilation; condom wrappers littered the floor. To my good fortune, the Latex Lady did not turn, but made straight for the trough urinal, allowing me the opportunity to position myself in the only stall with a door still on its hinges, latch it, and extend my camera above the partition to observe.
She was, I am pleased to report, every bit the vile and degenerate creature rumour told. Absent of men to amuse herself with, the Latex Lady squatted before the trough urinal, its single drain clogged with condoms, and commenced in an act of the most extraordinary perversion. She lowered her drinking hose into the pool of urine, and the sound of sucking through the long rubber straw filled the dingy tiled bathroom block, mixing görükle escort with the faint whistle of wind through the besser blocks.
I watched all of this through my tablet, linked to the raised camera, with increasing disgust – and its twin sibling, desperate arousal. I am not, and have never been, a urine freak… But the sight of the Latex Lady, committed so to her passion, nonetheless sent a thrill of erotic pleasure through my body. It was terribly hot under my woolen coat, and I ached for touch between my legs. Settling back on the toilet, I indulged myself, sliding my hand inside my coat and under the hem of my trousers, into my panties.
Yes, I hissed to myself, fingers pumping into my needy cunt. You magnificent beast… Debase yourself, degrade yourself… Pollute your womanly splendour with the vilest perversions – just let me see, that’s all, just let me…
A man entered, and paused at the sight of the Latex Lady there, sucking away. Surely, surely he would be repelled, I thought, turn tail, flee… But, as if possessed by some ungovernable passion, or the depraved whim of some dark and malevolent diety, he instead produced his penis – a pale, skinny thing of no greatly notable property – and commenced the same feverish masturbation as the 7/11 clerk. The Latex Lady turned to present her inflated tits to him, and within a minute he ejaculated, spraying his watery semen onto the black latex in tribute to this erotic madness. He followed it with piss, spraying into her mask, running in great rivers off the ant-eater muzzle to splash over her tits and thighs.
I, I am unashamed to admit – we are, afterall, pervert-watchers, and not merely those who watch perverts – came as I watched. I was able to stifle my gasps of pleasure by muffling myself with my scarf, avoiding detection, and as I lay back against the toilet cistern I helped myself to coffee from my flask. Outside, the Latex Lady had returned to her worship of the golden liquid, though now she was not merely drinking the stuff, but gathering cupped handfuls and rubbing it into the latex that clung to her as a second skin. I trembled with erotic delight to see her carefully bring a cupped handful up to her cameltoed pussy, and massage it into the glossy black plastic. What strange pleasure this gave her, I cannot say – I know only that my own pussy throbbed sympathetically, with a needy ache.
The evening continued in this way for some time. Men entered, increasingly drunk as the night wore on, and relieved themselves both of cum and of piss on the Latex Lady. At no point did they actually touch her, or engage in any other sex act, which at the time I did not find strange, as I was myself caught up in the raw erotic frenzy permeating the bathroom. I now find it queer, but perhaps the least queer aspect of the night’s events, as you will see. The strange hypnotic quality the urine-obsessed creature possessed seemed to override any sense. I witnessed gay men – and I do not assume merely on dress or manner, my dear, for as you know, as a pervert-watcher I am intimately familiar with the tearoomers, the cruisers, the leathermen, the mollyclubs, the lockerroomers, the jerk off buddies, the public school veterans who meet in the boat shed, and all the other astonishing variety of faggotry that occurs in our wonderful town. These were men I knew from such events to be quite entirely, and magnificently, gay – perform the same service in tribute to this idol of lust, alongside men whose morality was unassailable, old men, youths barely out of their teens, and even some of the resident town studs.
All the while, I of course was frigging myself into a frothing frenzy. Large swathes of time passed without anything to witness but the Latex Lady adorning herself with urine and used escort bayan condoms, slurping the contents with her mouthpiece, and even during those lulls I could not quite contain myself. My fingers were soon sore, but I paused largely only to drink brandy and coffee, to energize myself through the evening.
As dawn neared, the magnificently obscene creature seemed to finally find herself satisfied after what, by my count, was the thirty-seventh man to ejaculate on her body. She did not rise, but crawled away. Her belly, I noticed, was distended with the sheer quantity of fluids she had taken in, and her breathing laboured, rasping through the small black box mounted on her hip.
I followed, of course, on feet that were less than steady themselves – it was a rather large flask of brandy – as she crawled out of the toilet block, and back down Mitchell Street. The early grey light betrayed the sheer filth coating the Latex Lady’s body, splotches of drying white adorning her shoulders, hips, and ass. I watched, near hypnotized, the sway of her hips, the beckoning hunger of her cunt beneath the latex. A car passed us, some early riser, and I paid it no mind at all.
She lead me back down the empty lot behind the 7/11, and through into the dead end of Lorikeet Lane. We passed the sleeping accountant’s office, the tiny hole in the wall cafe (still shuttered), and made our way through the narrow alley that lead out towards Musgrove Park together. I no longer cared if she sighted me – and she, for her part, gave no indication of caring if she was observed, or even of recognizing the possibility. She lead me into the trees, and fearful of her disappearing as had happened to her first sighter, I rushed to follow, branches snapping underfoot.
We emerged not into a clearing, but into a shadowy hall, which I still cannot account for. The space does not exist, and did not then exist, and yet – I have seen it. I have the film to prove it. I followed her, overwhelmed by the need to know (for that is our true perversion, is it not, dear, us pervert-watchers? The need to know? To see?), into the dark shadows.
She reached a large concrete depression in what I assume to be the center of the hall, unscrewed the hose of her mouth, and allowed the contents of her belly to pour forth. It was not, as I had expected, a sea of semen and urine. It was black, glossy, and not at all latex. She shuddered orgasmically in the process, the kind of immense and spine-rattling climax that we all long for but rarely achieve. As the fluids poured from her mouthpiece she shrank in on herself, tighter and tighter, the latex collapsing into thin beams, a stick figure of a creature with a shock of blonde hair – and then finally, she was gone. The pool of black not-latex gleamed with the wan red light of a distant sun and roiled with movement, and I knew then that the Latex Lady was not truly gone, that whoever or whatever she was, would endure within the pool.
She would return again, when that strange hall needed feeding again – perhaps in another week, another fortnight, another month. For what purpose, I cannot possibly say. I turned and left, and it made no effort to stop me. It burbled behind me like a contented deity, and as I reached the threshold space where the trees began, it spoke my name in a voice I heard deep in my cunt and my spine, but not in my ears.
When it returns, I am invited to visit again. I am invited to dip myself into the not-latex, and surrender myself to the strange dark passions of the Hall That Isn’t There.
Promise me you will film me if I do, my darlings. Promise me that if I succumb to the temptation of donning the blonde wig and the black not-latex, the ant-eater’s muzzle of rare gases and urine, you will film my perversion. Afterall… The next best thing to watching is being watched.
As usual, don’t forget to fave, vote, and comment. Stay tuned for more from the Masturbating Maniac in the Abandoned Post Office.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32