I am walking to the tube when it happens

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by Daniel Guy.


I glance over to a street market and catch sight of a stall of cheap, gaudy coloured toys.  A beautiful young Indian girl reaches up and lifts from a hook a pink plastic doll, wrapped in clear cellophane.  She inspects it, feels the small soft rubbery body through the protective wrapper, runs hers thumb over its face, chest and groin and then squeezes it hoping the toy will squeak.

I gasp audibly.  For some strange reason I feel incredibly aroused, imagining that I am that doll, tied and naked inside the clear semi-inflated protective bag, gripped tight by this gorgeous princess. 

The bulge in my jeans is clearly visible so I walk away, looking around at the people in the street to see if they have noticed.  I try to walk nonchalantly, deciding that as I am dangerous in this present state, I must find a place to de-spunk.  

Then I remember.  I have promised my partner to save my sperm till Wednesday.  We haven’t fucked for seven days. I’m filled up to the brim and bursting.  My long thick dick hangs stiff down my leg and each step I make seems to arouse it further.  I curse these fucking boxer shorts she forced me to wear.   My weird erotic daydream fades for a moment while I worry once again about the prospect of being a father.   

On the train, a shy young Japanese girl in a shiny black pvc raincoat sits opposite me and for a lingering second I admire the delicate features of her face.  She pulls out from her bag a sandwich wrapped in cling film and before I know it, my dick is hard once more. I squirm in my seat in an attempt to accommodate my stiffy without causing alarm in the carriage. The Japanese girl blinks innocently as he stares up at the advertisements above my head, not knowing that each bite of her sandwich is causing me havoc.   She finishes the sandwich and then idly plays with the plastic film between her fingers. I rush from the carriage at the next stop.
Twenty minutes later, I am in Soho and it dawns on me that this part of the city is the worst place for me right now.  The air is filled with the smell of sex, male sweat and testosterone.  So I seek sanctuary in a pub.  I buy a drink and am temporarily distracted by three youths sitting next to me, showing each other the stupid things they’ve bought.  The sound of the rustling plastic carrier bags rings through my ears as if amplified a hundred times, sending vibrations down my spine and I am once again the owner of an erection with attitude.  I finish my drink determined to make my way to the toilet and shoot my load so that I can get on with my day.  
But then a stunning Brazilian girl walks towards me carrying two drinks.  She has olive skin and sparkling eyes and a mass of curly brown hair and when she stares at me I am convinced that I must be giving off some kind of sexual energy.  The Brazilian girl is joined by another, even more beautiful, because she is smiling and pregnant. I stumble out of the bar.

The sun is bright.  I am perspiring, my clothes stick to my skin and I feel strangely numb and dizzy. Across the street I see a whore with short spiky black hair and a tight red skirt standing in a doorway. Our eyes meet and she smiles as if she can see through my jeans. She pouts bright red lips at me and beckons me to come over. I shake my head and intend to walk away up the street, but she really looks like she likes me and wants to ask me something and I find my legs taking me across the street towards her.  A taxi swings around the corner though of course I am oblivious until the moment it clips my ass as it swerves to avoid me and I am nudged onto the pavement in front of her, tripping on the kerb and falling helplessly onto the ground at her feet. She drops her cigarette and balancing precariously on the longest stiletto heels I have ever seen, stoops to scoop me up.
My jeans are torn, my knee is bleeding and for a second it seems strange to me that I feel no pain, and my body aches only for de-spunking.
She talks to me and her accent is French, which naturally arouses me even further, but I am not listening to what she is saying because she is holding me under the arm and leading me in through the doorway and up a steep narrow staircase.  She knows. She knows.
The stairs seem to go on forever, old well-worn wooden steps, grey paint scraped away from the soles of ten thousand men who went up full and came down empty.

Up we go and I am wondering if have I got enough to pay her, and will I be able to lie about this to my partner.  As I stumble into a tiny attic room my forehead strikes a low beam. Once again I feel only a dull ache for a few moments.  Still dizzy I stand unsteadily beside the bed and hold out my wallet. The whore takes it but drops it onto the chest of drawers and then begins to undo my belt.  I am unable to bring myself to stop her.  I try to speak but can hear unintelligible half-sentences. I am trying to explain that there are many reasons why I shouldn’t be here but at the same time I need help for there is nowhere else I can go.  She pulls my jeans and boxers shorts down to my ankles and gently pushes me back till I am sitting on the side of the bed.  My cock bounces, aches, bulges, its tip sparkling with pre-cum.
The whore goes over to a chest of drawers, brings back a biscuit tin, flicks off her stilettos and comes down to kneel between my legs.  She opens the tin and I see a first aid kit inside.  I watch, aghast, my head spinning with confusion, terrified that she might send me back down those stairs unmilked.  

I sit there on the bed half-exposed, one leg being dabbed with disinfectant, one quivering in expectation and the third one in between bolt upright less than two feet from those bright red lips. 

She picks up a roll of white bandage, wrapped in clear cellophane. The agony becomes unbearable.  I cannot hold it any longer. My cock shoots its load over her face and as I gasp with relief, she recoils back onto her bum and breaks into giggles.  Relief at last.

Daniel Guy


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