Streetlamp Whore

At the dawn of every day, Richard sat in his old wooden rocker, on a slatted porch he needed to repair, creaking; waiting for the sound of her footsteps on the sidewalk as she approached his house - his 'streetlamp whore', the name he'd created for her - but only in his mind.

Each morning his desire to hear her, to watch her, seemed to grow stronger. She was becoming the most important person in his life; her arrival the most important event of his day -- waiting and watching a slut come out of the darkness and enter the light of a streetlamp so he could see her face; see what she was wearing.

What kind of look would she have on her face? Would she be ashamed and turn her head away from him like she did so many times? Or would she turn her head slightly to the left, and peer at him, with a tired, blank stare through dark tousled hair - as if she was hiding behind a veil?

He knew where she worked -- why she walked home alone at the time she did. Most people would wonder why a woman would risk her safety the way this woman did, but he knew she didn't care.

He wondered if she knew why she never made an effort to find a safer way home. Did she know she'd become numb to the pain of her disappointing and lonely life, and didn't care whether she lived or died?  

He knew why he knew her so well, though they'd never spoken a word. Richard knew, because he felt the same way.

She worked at the Gentlemen's Club down the street. That much he was sure about. She was a slut, a whore, a tramp - dancing for men, taking what little clothes she had on, off for them, piece by piece, hoping for a dollar bill, five dollars, maybe even a ten dollar bill.

This odd, lonely woman with whom he was so absorbed was a real

stripper in a night club - the kind of woman he would fuck in a minute, and turn on his heel and leave in a second - the kind of woman he could care less about.

Yet after a week or so of watching her every day at dawn, he would stay up all night to make sure he was outside on the porch waiting for her, smoking cigarette after cigarette; watching the smoke rise and curl toward the same light in which she would appear. 

If it weren't for the streetlight he would never see her. He began to wonder - and even worry about street lamps, and who made sure his came on when it should.

What a sorry life I must be living, he thought, to care so much about watching a slut walk home from a strip club, showing everything she had for strange men. He didn't even know her. He knew absolutely nothing about her - except that she possessed something he wanted.

Richard had never this obsessed with anything before in his life. He took pride in the way he lived - always in perfect control. He was baffled and angry at himself for feeling as though his day would not be the same if he didn't watch a whore walk home from work at dawn.

The first night he saw her was a mere coincidence. Life troubled him, coming at him fast in every direction. Insomnia was becoming his only friend. He heard dogs barking, and realized now why they had been barking like that every night, for what seem to be as long as he could remember. One particular night he decided to step outside and take a look.

There she was. A small odd, feminine figure coming out of the semi-darkness into the light of the streetlamp, walking slowly, shoulders a bit slumped - always carrying a pair of shoes in her hand. She wasn't wearing any, so he assumed they were hers. He noticed how high the heels were and how pointed the toes of her shoes were. The woman became even more interesting. He felt an ache in his groin - something like a welcomed, familiar arousal. He was a bit shocked at his reaction, but he enjoyed the feeling, and decided he wouldn't worry about it

Her entrance into his world became routine. First he would hear barking, then the sound of her footsteps. But her footsteps never sounded the same two nights in a row. Sometimes her feet were sore and she carried her shoes in her hand. Sometimes she only carried one shoe. On the nights she wore both shoes he knew she had a good night. Those were the nights she paused for a moment to look at him.  

At first she was afraid. He could tell. But after she realized he was only there to watch her, she almost appeared comforted by his presence, and the sound of his old wooden rocker creaking, as though it were the only sound in the world. 

Richard began to understand why he was so absorbed with his stripper under the streetlamp. He was bored. His life was mundane. His wife, Rosemary, left him and never told him why. He always believed she left him for the same reason she never wanted to have children. 

Rosemary was a silly, selfish woman and didn't need to have children anyway, so he never questioned her or complained about not having a family. She was simply herself; an amoeba swimming in her own liquid, separated from the rest of the world. Richard convinced himself that's the way Rosemary wanted it, and that was why she left him.

He found himself beginning to feel a bit like a bear sometimes, hibernating, and this plain old house was his cave. His life and everything about it lacked excitement to the point he feared it would put him to sleep forever. If he didn't wake up soon he would die.

He felt like he wanted to explode. He thought about the warning labels on cleaning supplies - how dangerous it was to mix certain ones together.

Richard decided he wanted to know what it was like to wear a warning label. Maybe the slut wants to know what it would feel like to wear a warning label too. That's why she takes chances the way she does. I bet she could wake me up. I bet she already wears her own special warning label. He laughed to himself thinking about it.

He thought about what it would be like to fuck her. The ache in his groin begin to rumble. He liked this feeling and resolved not to fight it. The more he thought about fucking the whore, the more he ached with pleasure and the harder his cock grew.

This was a fantasy he enjoyed, and one he intended to fulfill.

How could he resist? Fucking her would be like mixing the wrong cleaning liquids. Coming with her the same time she did, would be like an explosion. He would ejaculate gallons of sperm into her after her tight cunt had rubbed his cock up and down - just like his hand did - damn his hand and the reason he had to use it.

He knew she would have a tight pussy because she fucked all the time, which of course was the same as exercising it well. She probably squeezed and grabbed all kinds of men with her pussy; every man with a different sized cock, stroking them until each one loaded her with come, just like he would.

On this particular morning, Richard was still in bed waiting for dawn to arrive. His mind had been so empty. But not anymore. He began thinking more and more about what it would feel like to fuck the little stripper with the tight cunt. It felt good to think about her. This time he wouldn't make himself stop the fantasy.

Richard continued to let his mind wander.

His cock would fill her up till she would feel like she was giving birth to his hard, slick rod each time he pulled it out of her. He would fuck her hard and deep, just like he knew she wanted it. She would know how to fuck him too. She would fuck so well that every time he lunged inside her she would squeeze the head of his cock with her cunt muscles as his dick was coming out, and suck on it, as if she had two mouths; both of them sucking on him at the same time.

She would know what to do with her hands too. As if by instinct, she would roll his nuts around inside her hands between each slender finger. I bet she has fucked so many men she would know when I was ready to come too, Richard thought. She would know to grab his nut sack firmly, and pull downward, almost to the brink of pain. He would squirt his come all over her, and inside her, and she would like it, making all the right sounds, and noises. Moaning loudly and screaming, she would squirm around so her pussy could lap up his come like a thirsty dog lapping water.

The little whore would have long fingernails too. As she pushed her hips into him, she would scrape and scratch his back and shoulders, digging at him, pulling him inside.

Damn, I need that, Richard was thinking, absent-mindedly pulling his cock out of his boxers and squeezing the tip of it over and over again, masturbating mindlessly to his fantasy.

He didn't do this often but it felt so good he didn't stop. He thought about how much he deserved to give a woman a good fucking. He deserved to be fucked back too, not just stick a rod as hard and thick as his dick inside a woman who would just lay there like a dead worm in a dried up Rosemary Garden.

He deserved a woman who was fleshy and alive and wet - one who would move all over him like his little streetlamp slut. They would both be slippery with sweat, and slick with come.

If she wanted it, he may even decide to hurt her a little bit, or let her hurt him. Maybe even both. He thought about how much better that would be.

Richard would never force himself on anyone, and he had never mixed pain with a good fuck, but the more he thought about it, the faster his hands and fingers worked on his swollen cock. He imagined the brave little slut squeezing his balls to make him scream. She would really enjoy that and tell me about it, whining and squirming the whole time, Richard thought, not caring that he was lost ' drowning in pleasure, alive with his own fantasy.

It wasn't close to dawn yet. He knew that much. He never did this and he couldn't stop now, even if he wanted to.

So what the hell? he thought. Why not? 

Continuing to rub and milk his cock with one hand, he scrambled out of his shorts with the other, and decided to give in completely. He grabbed his balls hard with the other hand.

He was fucking the air like a wild man now, and couldn't stop, because Richard wasn't fucking air. He was fucking a stripper, and she was screaming and wriggling under him with her legs up high and wrapped tightly around him, lunging her hips at his, just as he was plunging into her. She was as wild as he was, and fucked him back like a good whore should.

Richard squeezed his balls tighter and tighter until they ached, but he didn't care. He couldn't care anymore. He was past the point of awareness now, heading toward an explosion - the explosion he wanted. He felt it coming fast and furiously. Bucking like a primal beast - in one final, hard thrust he came all over himself as he never had before.

Even though he was alone, he tried to muffle his groaning -- it seemed so loud to him. He knew it was loud. He must have been hollering -- he had to be. Sperm was everywhere, but he was glad. Relieved.

What a release, he thought. He needed it. This was the longest orgasm he'd ever had. Without a doubt, he'd just been fucked hard, and grabbed and squeezed until he hurt, but it worked.

Good, evil, real, and unreal forces all joined to create the explosion he had created in his mind and wanted desperately, but never had. He still couldn't stop, and now it would be easy to continue. He needed his sperm to rub all over his nuts, and up and down his cock, still swollen and hard, his body in spasms out of control; he began slowing down with each jerk of his legs and torso, until he was almost satisfied.

His legs and fingers in cramps from such a furious orgasm, finally Richard's body was tired and dazed. He didn't want the fantasy to end, but it did. It was over ... really over. He was alone, the pounding of his heart like the beating of wild drums, reminding him of the streetlamp ... of his streetlamp whore, and her footsteps coming ever toward him.

He had to have her now. He had to fuck her hard so she would want to fuck him back, so strong and fast they would hurt each other -- he, with his deep drilling and his selfish thrusts; her with her hands and fingers like tightly wound string gripping his steel-like cock, and grasping his balls, pulling them over and over again, until he bucked and groaned loud and long. She would be willing and ready, just like he was.

Laying in his own come; in his own bed, Richard thought about how horny his slut - his little whore would make him, performing for him, just like she performed for all the men at the Gentleman's Club. He thought about the explosion between them as they finally came together, all at once. She would to be fucked. Even if he had to wait, she would want it from him. Eventually, he knew it would happen.

Richard was confident, knowing the mysterious stripper under the streetlamp would want him desperately. But he knew he had to be patient and cautious, waiting for morning knowing what the day would bring.

Slowly the sun began to rise, and Richard returned once again to the creak of his old rocking chair. and his broken down porch.

Finally, it was dawn. Out of the semi-darkness, she stepped into the light of the streetlamp, wearing both shoes. She paused for just a moment ... right before Richard, always the gentleman, said in his most polite voice,

"Good morning, ma'am. You look like you could use a strong cup of coffee"

'and I'd be more than happy to make your day.'


M. Wyatt