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Slam-Pig Crackwhore Fucks So Hard

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'That's the best needle you'll ever get, you fuckin' slut.'

He pulled his jeans up and looked down at her as she struggled to untie the knot her panties were getting into around her cheap and glorious fuck me stilettos.

She looked up at him and stared. She did not hate them anymore, but she did not like them either. It was pure economics. She immunised herself with heroine, but she always needed more. d**gs, like sex: you always need more. That was why she was kneeling in One Lamp Alley playing cat's cradle with her knickers while a man she had met twenty minutes before was standing over her pulling up his jeans while his cock stuck out of the fly of his boxers at half mast looking at her like a little viper that had eaten something that agreed with it. It was dry like a real snake, but for the little of her saliva that was not still inside her otherwise equally arid cunt. She had taken him to some paradisiacal hell, in a dirty alleyway between two Victorian houses in a back street in the hinterlands beyond King's Cross Station. This was her boudoir and the backstreet was where she initiated her speed dates.

His jeans now back where they are supposed to be, he remembered that he was supposed to be a human being and took a roll of notes from his pocket. Then he looked at her and forgot again.

You're a fuckin' good whore junkie,' he said 'you're so good I'm gonna give you a tip.'

'Thanks' she said and feigned a smile. It looked like a real one

He handed her another ten pound note. That made forty in total.

About twenty two minutes earlier she has been prowling her strip when he walked up. Usually they came in cars, but for the occasional pedestrian she had her boudoir. She preferred it to getting in cars. The car was his place; the boudoir hers.

It was late and she had done five already since nine when she had come out and begun her shift. He had walked past the few other girls still out and come to her. When he had seen her, his eyes had lit up like cheap little neon fairground lights. It was the meanest of pleasures; to be the chosen one.

He had walked up and come straight to the point.

'How much?'

'Twenty'

'For what?'

'I'll suck you off and then you fuck me. No kissing.'

'Where?'

'There's an alley round the corner. It's quiet. No one will disturb us.'

'Ok'

'Follow me. Give me the money when we get there.'

One minute later they were in the alley.

'Under the streetlamp' he said 'I want to be able to see you.'

She led him. She leant him against the wall and stood in front of him; foot or so between them. He was a little taller than her and maybe ten years older, but she looked older than him. She was twenty seven and she had been a heroin addict since she was sixteen and a prostitute since s*******n.

'I wanna bareback you.'

'No, you have to use a condom.'

He didn't protest.

She pulled her leather jacket off of her shoulders, undid her shirt and unclipped her bra. She always wore a front loader. It made things easier.

His cock finished hardening in his jeans at the sight of her tits. They were small and each had a home drawn tattoo on it. On the right one was a faded rose, which she had done years ago. On the left one was scrawled the word 'skank' in dark ink. It was darker and more recent. Her skin was the colour of soured milk. Her nipples pointed out and both of them were pierced with sleepers.

'Have you got Aids?' he said.

'Have you?'

No'

'Pull on a ring with your teeth.' she said.

He lent forward and put his tongue into the ring and pulled. Her tit stretched towards his mouth. Then he bit the ring and pulled harder. By the time the pulling began to hurt he had his cock in her hand and she could have pulled that hard until it hurt, but she didn't. She could bite it viciously later, but she wouldn't. With the cock nested in her hand, its underside in her palm, she pulled the foreskin back and forth and slowly the pulling on the ring subsided as he found his pleasure and lost his desire to hurt her.

He raised his head up and stared at her. She looked back without seeing him. She was thinking that he was not a bad punter. He had money and he was not going to get violent. She had developed an instinct and she had never been wrong. He probably had a good job and a girlfriend or a wife and played some kind of sports on the weekends. She knew too that she was not his first street girl. She had learned the language of the street and she could smell the changes in the air, and here was a respectable man who had a taste for the gutter and liked to pretend to be nasty.

So she made an effort. He would be worth cultivating. She slowed the motion of her hand and wanked him slowly, as though she was enjoying doing it and whispered up to him 'I like your cock baby. It's nice in my hand.'

'How many cocks you had up you tonight?'

She had him figured. 'You're the sixth, but I really wanna feel your cock in my pussy.'

'You filthy diseased cunt. You love six cocks a night, don't you. You fuckin' need 'em, you smacked up slut.'

'I know what I am' she said blankly, 'but tell me, tell me again,' with a little faked eagerness.

'Your cunt loves cocks like your veins love heroin.'

'What's your heroin?'

'You are, you Aids ridden skank.'

'That's what it says on my tit. That's me. So is the rose. Rose is my name. And skank is what I am; a filthy cock worshipping, sewer whore.'

'You're not a rose. You're poison ivy.'

He was kneeling before him now and about to suck his cock. 'Tell me what I am while I gobble your dick.'

'Suck my knob, you depraved slag.'

But it did not excite her.

It was exciting him and she felt that he was going to cum. It was strictly cum once, as quickly as she could bring them off and get rid of them. But she kept sucking and in a few moments his spunk was spurting into her mouth. She withdrew her mouth from his cock and gobbed the cum out onto the concrete.

She felt confused. Why had she carried on sucking until he had spunked in her mouth? She did not mind the johns spunking in her mouth and she barely even tasted it anymore; so much of it had been shot in there over the years. But he had paid to fuck her as well and it was strictly cum once. She had screwed up on her timing and she was angry with herself. She had some professional pride. She glanced up at him and he looked confused too. He did not know whether to feel pleased with the excellence of her blow job or angry at being cheated out of her cunt.

Would he get angry? Should she offer him some money back? Should she sweet talk him and keep the money?

'Don't worry. You can still fuck me.'

She knew he had not seen her spit. She always spat it out. She charged ten quid for a blow job with a condom and fifteen for uncovered. Most of the other girls would not do uncovered blow jobs, but she did. It was a selling point and the word got about among the johns. She let them bareback her too; a few of them even up her arse, for the extra tenner, or twenty if it was her arse, and she didn't care. She just followed her instinct and the strength of her need for her medicine.

She turned him on so much that his cock was getting hard again already. She took hold of it and stroked it until it was stiff and then she turned around and bent over with her legs a little apart.

'If I don't open my legs wide it will be tighter.'

As he was getting into position, one hand gripping her around her waist and the other holding his cock and guiding it towards her cunt, she was spitting into her hand and reaching down with the handful of saliva to lubricate herself. She was back on form and her timing was perfect. Her hand moved away from her pussy just as his cockhead was about to hit her lips. He would not realise what she had done. He would think that she was wet because she wanted him and that her pussy was clammy and cold because it was a chilly night.

'You're hot for me, aren't you, you bitch.'

She grinned to herself. It always works.

He fucked away at her and having already cum, he kept going for five minutes or so, his commentary of constant abuse providing the soundtrack. She was wondering what time it was and trying to remember if she had any milk in the fridge at home. Home was a shithole of a bedsit in Shoreditch. He shot up in her and pulled out.

And as she was struggling to get her panties over her stilettos he delivered another poetic flourish and offered her a tip. She had been right, as she always was. He was ok.

As he was turning to go, she said 'come and see me again. I'm here every night.' She gave him a flirty look.

'I might' he said.

He walked away and she stayed in the alley and took a cell phone from a pocket of her jacket and called her dealer. She needed a wrap to take home.

Sitting in the taxi home she thought about him. He might have been the devil or he might have been an angel. Underneath the talk, there was something about him. And she still did not know why she had let him come in her mouth.

The next night she was on her street again. She didn't have a sense one way or the other whether he would come tonight or not; don't like him, don't dislike him, she said to herself, but he was fine. The insults are just his gig. He did not come. She felt a little disappointed.

He was at home and he was thinking about her too. He wondered what was underneath her act. He thought it was something that someone could seem to hate themselves so much. Maybe it wasn't an act. He would go to her again. He wanted more.

He next night he did come. Same as last time, walking down the street like it was his, and at around the same time, just after twelve.

It was warmer than the last few nights had been.

'You can go bareback, like you wanted to the other night,' she said.

'You must like me,' he said.

'I wanna feel your cock naked in me, she said.

Then he went through an ever more colourful lexicon of insults and as she sucked his cock and took him in her cunt. The third night she did not turn her back and bend forward, and positioned herself against the wall and had him fuck her face on. No kissing.

But how would she wet her cunt without him seeing? She suddenly felt she did not need to. She was already wet.

'You wanna give me Aids,' he said as he pushed his cock into her cock unprotected.

He felt her warmth.

'Are you getting wet for me?' he asked.

She heard his groans and sighs, but he was not providing his commentary anymore. She determined not to enjoy it though. It was unprofessional. None of those johns was going to get that satisfaction; and she had seen that underneath the act, he did want her to enjoy it, and not only to satisfy his ego.

'I wanna fuck your arse,' he told her.

'Ok,' she said and lifted herself off of his cock

She turned herself around and lent against the wall and leaned forward, pushing her arse towards him. She let him take her of getting it in. She felt a finger slip into her. He was gentle, even though his words were as violent as usual. Soon the finger was replaced by his cock. It stretched her, but it did not hurt. She was used to it.

He told her what a lovely whore arse she had as he pushed his cock all the way up her and banged away until he shot his cum deep in her arse. It would take her half an hour to drip dry when she got home.

When he was finished she asked him a question.

'What's your name?' she asked. 'Mine is not really Rose. It's Clare.

Give some to get some.

'John' he said and she was sure he was telling the truth. She could not help laughing. He started to laugh to and said 'John by name.'

Suddenly an old thought came to her. Was he the one? The one who would save her? The one who would take her home and love her and give her a life.

'No one is just a john' she said.

'And no one is just a working girl,' he said 'you're my heroin. My junkie whore.'

'If I'm the junkie whore, then you are the whore junkie.'

Neither of them said anything for a moment, because both of them became too shy to say the next thing.

Then she said it:

'Where are you going now?'

Maybe get a drink,' he said.

Fancy buying me a drink?'

He hesitated for a moment and then said 'yes, I will.'

They would find a late night bar somewhere

They went off down the street together.

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