On My Knees in Barcelona

On My Knees in Barcelona takes place in Barcelona during ‘a summer when the nights were so hot the city couldn’t sleep and everyone grew angry and crazy’. It first appeared in Violet Blue’s Best Women’s Erotica 2010 and was selected for inclusion in Best of Best Women’s Erotica, an anthology spanning the last 5-6 years of the series. Here, my narrator, an English teacher living in the city, has dropped in to a local bar late at night, hoping for a jug of ice to cool her in the heat. A guy at the bar has bought her a brandy.

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I sipped my brandy. I could feel him watching and his passive interest bugged. After a couple more minutes, wanting to escape his gaze, I asked for the lavabos and was directed down a flight of rickety stairs. I descended towards a basement with scruffy, dark crimson walls, toilets at the far end and a swing door with a small, dirty window lined with wire mesh. Halfway down the stairs, movement below caught my eye. I paused, looking over my shoulder at the corridor behind me. Beyond an open door was a guy on a chair and a woman on her knees, her head bobbing in his lap. I clutched the banister, immobilized by fear and a sudden, pornographic lust.

My cunt swelled and swelled, blood throbbing there. Oh Christ, what a picture. The guy’s mouth was slack, his head tipped back, as the woman, her chestnut curls fanning over his thighs, dipped up and down, up and down. Had they heard me? Hell, I hoped not. I needed to watch. Until that moment, I hadn’t known how much I wanted cock; hadn’t known how much I’d missed it since dumping the guitarist; hadn’t known that stab of raging desire. Because while I could fuck myself with cock-shaped objects (cool as a cucumber), nothing could ever come close to the overwhelming sensations of a deep, dark, blinding mouthful. I stared, hardly daring to breathe.

The guy was young and lean, a tumble of ink-black curls giving him an air of flamenco passion. Transfixed, I watch him grow fiercer, pulling the woman onto him, his fingers snarled in her hair as his pelvis rocked either to meet or defeat her. In her kneeling position, the woman kicked at the floor, squealing in muffled protest, her hands flapping. My yearning for cock was knocked for six by a second wave, a shocking urge to be claimed and used in a myriad of filthy ways.

My cunt flared to a cushiony mass of need, so sensitive I fancied I could feel the warp and weft of cotton in my underwear. I wanted to be where she was, at the mercy of a wild stranger who regarded me as nothing but an object for his pleasure, insignificant and disposable. I wanted to be all body and no mind, a thing made of cunt, mouth and ass, wide open and ready to receive.

Face aflame, I turned, intending to hurry back to the bar. I would put it from my thoughts, pretend nothing had happened, pretend I hadn’t seen either the couple or the grubby depths of my desire. Was this because I hadn’t had sex for so long? Was I craving the basest sort of action as compensation for those months of lack? Feeling shaky, I clasped the banister, mouth dry as a bone.

My stomach somersaulted. To my horror, at the head of the stairs stood the big-nosed guy from the bar. He grinned, descending in slow, swaggering steps. Panicking, I glanced down to the room. The guy in the chair was looking right at me, smirking as he slammed the woman’s head between his thighs. My knees turned wobbly while blood pumped in my ears, slushy like seashells and high fever.

Big Nose was at my side, his forehead gleaming with a film of sweat. He tipped his eyebrows at me. “Cuatro miles pesetas,” he said.

Outrage spiked my fear. Four thousand pesetas! He thought I was a whore, thought I would blow him for a nasty brandy and a handful of notes!

“Déjame paso!” I snapped, attempting to sidestep him. He mirrored me, blocking my path. I grew more afraid then, trapped between these two randy cucarachas, and yet my groin was pulsing as hard as my heart.

“Cuatro miles,” he repeated, nodding towards the basement room. Then in Spanish he added, “Take it, go on. It is a good price. You know you want it.”

And I understood at once that I was to pay; that I was the punter not the whore.

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. . Best Women’s Erotica 2010 Amazon UK :: Amazon US Best of Best Women’s Erotica 2 Amazon UK :: Amazon US