Monday Morning Spanish Fuck
This is Siobhan:
Love the area I live in. It’s a cacophony of the rich and poor, all kicking their heels in the same places and as much of a representation of the many different faces of this city as you will get.
Early mornings are my favourite. Even when I am not working, I will get up early and venture out into this melee of soceity and bask in all of its endearment.
I come to the end of my street and turn onto the Portobello Road. There’s a post office on the corner, where the infirm and generally useless queue for government handouts every Monday morning. You can set your watches by the agitated looks on their faces as the minutes tick closer and closer to 8am. Before this hour on a weekday, the street is a deserted stank of the night before. The subtle smell of urine catches the back of your throat and mixes there with the warm hue and smell of baked goods from the Greggs. When I am down or have my monthly stomach cramps, I nick in for a sausage roll and bask in the London chill as the delicate pastry melts on my tongue and the flakes fall onto my chest. I must be good today though. Then there’s the imported Spanish coffee percolating at the Cafe Garcia. I can hear the girls yapping in their mother tongue as I approach the ever-sprawling business. If you are lucky and the forecast is good, you will find one of the regular salt of the earths setting up a fruit and veg stall. There’s that rough blonde lady that’s here all the time and sets up outside Tesco’s, attempting bravely to compete with their low, low prices.
The trendy girls in their ballet flats wait for their boss outside the American Apparel store waiting to start their working day. As I walk past, I catch them discussing hedge funds and how they are doing on the stock market. The priviledged few who get to live here either slam their doors proudly and dash off to the tube in their Armani suits or lounge around the alfresco tables in their board shorts and flip flops, laden with broadsheets that flap in the wind. The trust-funded yawn in contemplation at what possibly they could do with their day.
Then there are the other regular sights I see. The girl with Downs who perches at the same table outside the Cafe Nero and sits on a bottle of Coke for hours, just watching the world go by and chuckling to herself. The film producers perusing over scripts outside Progresso on the corner of Colville Terrace. They occasionally glance up hoping to discover the next English rose and always blink in amazement when I glide past with my red hair and exposed tattoos.
When I do go as far as the tube up the road to Notting Hill Gate, I like to stop at Kingsland, the Edwardian butchers to look at the skinned game and award winning homemade sausages. Occasionally when I am feeling flushed, I will buy six for later to make with my prized Spring Onion and Cheddar Mashed Potato for Homme and Femme’s dinner. Today I notice that they have rare breed beef and salt marsh lamb from Suffolk, whatever that is. I’m sure locals don’t care, they just shop their for the prestige, like I secretly do.
If I time it right, I get to pass the cute black girl further up the road, as I pass the indoor antique markets. She wears designer bifocals and always smells quite delicious. I always want to stop her and ask her where she got her eyewear and perfume but there’s this certain unwritten etiquette about London that seems to prevent you from being nice to others in the street. Instead, I smile with polite recognition instead.
Back down the street as I then pass the Cafe Garcia, I catch the eye of a rather rugged latin face in a fitted grey sweater idly daydreaming out of the window as I pass. He sees me and there’s that haunted look in his eyes as we make contact that men get when they realise that they have taken a split second too long in capturing a woman’s interest. I give him a smile and look down innocently. I glance back seconds later to see him step out into the street and turn my way. A second glance ensures that he is indeed following me. He seems to have changed his mind about that particular establishment’s wares and has decided to look for something tastier, I think to myself. I don’t want to panic him or make him feel like a pest so I turn and give him an encouraging smile.
He’s putty in my hands now, of course. I decide to tease him a little and stop for a moment and look at some shoes in a window. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him stop and he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. I chuckle to myself and carry on and quickly dart into the Coffee Plant, my regular coffee stop.
I feel him behind me as I queue for my organic tea with soya milk. I place my order and glance to one side. He’s looking awkwardly up at the menu.
“It’s all fair trade... and really good.” I purr.
“I saw you back there...” he started.
“I noticed.” I interrupted playfully. He offers to pay for my tea and orders some Aribica. He looks down at my leg and comments on my tattoo.
“It’s new...” I tell him, looking down myself at the celtic sprawl on my thigh.
“I have lots..” I say as I sip and blow the heat from the edge of my cup. We stand awkwardly and he smiles down at me. He’s well over six feet and well built. He’s about the same size as Johnson but not as defined. I guess he’s always loved his mother’s cooking like all latin sons do. I think what he would look like naked. I prefer shorter slim guys like Homme but I start to imagine what his performance would be like as he explains what he does when I ask.
He and his brother are architects and are advising on a local development.
“I pass that every day. It’s noisy.” I kid.
He spends an acceptable amount of time talking to my chest but not too much and I flirt and touch his arm. As he talks about his family in Madrid, he places his hand on the small of my back where my shorts sit a few times and each time I move into his hand. He takes the hint and asks me if I am on my way to work. I shake my head innocently. He asks me in his sexy broken English whether I would like to come and see his studio. It’s nearby and has a roof terrace, apparently. He suggests we could get a little sun.
I assume that’s Spanish for ‘fuck me on his sun lounger’, but I could be wrong. Whatever he’s after, he’s cute. He has a nice body. I’m horny. I don’t want to get involved with anyone and neither (I suspect) does he. Let’s see what Spanish has got between his legs, have half an hour of fun and go about with the rest of my day.
“Come to my place.” I counter. “I have a few things to do.”
“Do you live on your own?” he wonders. I shake my head.
“My boyfriend is at home. He’ll be going out in a few hours though.”
He laughed. “Won’t mind me being there?”
I sipped my coffee seductively. This is the fun bit, I think to myself.
“No, he’ll still be in bed... with his wife.”
“His wife? You said he was your boyfriend....”
I nodded.
“Does she... know... that you having an affair with him?”
Should I break it to him? I think I should. Best to get it out of the way, I find.
“I’m not having an affair with him... but I am in a relationship with the both of them.”
You could bottle the intrigue and naugty glee on his face, bottle it and sell it on the market at a huge profit.
He dropped me onto the living room floor and I looked up to see Femme on the couch, dressed in nothing but a basque top and heels with a riding crop in her hand.
Siobhan handed me a bullet vibrator as she pulled out her box of tricks, emptying it out over the bed, scattering an array of plus and vibes.
Jada and Jane shifted up and lay beside each of my shoulders and entered into a three-way kiss with me while both Siobhan and Jessica sat beneath them, kissing and nibbling each od my nipples. Femme entered with a bottle of wine and the punch bowl of condoms Siobhan had placed on the dining table while Maria and Tanya massaged the tops of my legs and my balls while they snogged each other. With my two arms free, I reached under Jane to finger her and on the other side for Jessica, who happily moved her bottom the short distance to my hand so I could play away.
The water rushed over us as she got on her knees and took my cock in hand, soaping the shaft and my balls. The water beat the back of her neck, so I moved the head slightly so it hit her bum instead. She arched her bum up and moaned at the sensation. She stood and washed me off before bending over and taking me in her mouth. I felt bodies mill around by the doorway and heard Tanya talking to Siobhan about having a little peek. They watched as Femme gave me a wonderful blowjob, making me cum after a few minutes.
“Sorry, I just wanted your first orgasm....” she said cheekily. It was only fair, I guess. After all, I had already given hers in the cinema.
1. I’m a trained Ice Dancer. Fortunately for my career in running around getting coffee for minor celebrities and bottles of Jack Daniels for American rock stars, the Irish Ice Dancing sport didn’t have a lot of investment, so I actually gave it up. I still go down to the rink in Queensway for the odd pirouette. It’s near my little Hyde Park fuck spot, under the trees and by the road where I have met Homme and Johnson for the odd 30 minutes of clandestine fornication.
2. I met Madonna last week. I can’t go into details but it was regarding Live Earth. (I get to go but I am working) I’ve met her a few times though but always around some sort of release. She’s actually quite sweet, despite her dubious choices on child adoption.
3. I’m actually quite shy. I am, honestly. In the company of strangers and I am alone, I am very bashful.
4. I love my soaps. If I don’t catch them, I have to record Corrie and Eastenders and Big Brother too, I’m hooked.
5. I love my punk bands but I also appreciate throwing on a Steps tune, every once in a while.
6. I’m really into feminine, tattooed girls. The more tattoos the better and like this girl, I have my fair share too.
7. I had sex with three different men in three different locations yesterday. 
1. I don’t actually blog on here. Apart from the one post about my Cap D’Adge beach experience, I email everything to Homme who posts for me. Even the one I did, I typed it first in Word and then posted it. I don’t like the idea of spending my down time typing online, I’d much rather spend my evenings watching my programmes, having a bath or sleeping with one of my two lovers. I will only use the internet at home for checking emails, reading other blogs and ordering from 
2. I’m a vegetarian and more or less tee total too. Apart from the odd Bailey’s when we are in a restaurant... Sherry at Christmas... Champagne at New Year... and a bit of bubbly from the body of my girlfriend, of course. Luckily Homme found himself an Irish girl to keep up with his drinking...
3. I have every single episode of Friends on DVD and can quote you, line for line, the most memorable scenes. Really sad, I know.
4. I fancy Jeremy Clarkson. He does it for me. It’s his fuck you cockiness, I think. I saw him in the street recently and he pushed in front of a group of people to use the cash machines. You just have to admire the sheer arrogance of the man.
5. I can’t swim. I never learned to, so it’s the shallow end of the beach for me.
6. When I was younger, I wanted to be a nurse. I never went down that educational path but still often get to be a nurse at home.
7. I have read all of the Patrick O’Brian books.
Until that point, I had only felt the pleasure inflicted by the bare hands of my Homme and Femme (who is partial herself to the odd reddening), apart from that one afternoon I begged her to bend me over her knee like a bad aunt and smack me with one of her ballet flats.
Within half an hour of sending, I’d received replies from two of the parties mentioned.
