Sex in San Francisco

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Romance comes to Herman.
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Boxlicker101
Boxlicker101
3,139 Followers

At nine o'clock on a Saturday morning in May, Herman climbed off the turnip truck in San Francisco. Actually, it wasn't a turnip truck, it was a Greyhound Bus and Herman climbed off at the Seventh Street Terminal. Calling it a turnip truck is another way of pointing out that Herman was a yokel, a rube, a hick, a jay, or whatever word is used nowadays for a totally naïve person from rural America who is suddenly thrust into a big, bad, sinful city like San Francisco. Besides being a hick from the sticks, Herman was another cliché, a young man whose fancy had turned, in the springtime, to thoughts of love. That was why he was in The City; he was looking for love, and he had heard this was the place to find it.

Monica was part of the big, bad, sinful city of San Francisco, especially the sinful part because she was a hooker working Seventh Street, in front of the bus station. Her given name wasn't actually Monica but she had adopted her current profession about the time Bill Clinton was impeached and it seemed like a good name to use, since she specialized in giving head.

Sometimes she was able to do allright at this location but on that day she had a serious problem. Monica had awoken an hour earlier with a throbbing head and a churning stomach, one of her worst hangovers ever. The wine she drank for breakfast had gotten her well, but only temporarily. Her problem was that she had finished her only bottle and needed money to buy more; therefore she needed to find a john, and quickly. Monica had hopes of getting drunk before the morning was over but first she needed to find some guy who would pay her for a blowjob or whatever else he wanted. No money meant no wine, which would mean comparative sobriety and a world class hangover, and that would start as soon as the therapeutic effects of her breakfast wore off.

Most men, even if they would have patronized hookers, were completely repelled by Monica's bleary eyes and her disgusting odor of rotgut wine, and they gave her smiling offers as wide a berth as possible. If she got too close, they cursed her and even pushed her away. She was getting more and more desperate when she spotted the young man emerging from the bus terminal.

San Francisco is known for its hospitality to all kinds of people, even yokels like Herman. Where some cities might have rejected him as an ignorant rube, The City by the Bay was not one of them. San Franciscans, in this case, Monica, welcome strangers into their midst. In her case, when she saw him leaving the bus station, she perceived that he was new in town, probably had some money in his pocket, might be horny and was, therefore, an excellent prospect.

"Hey, Buddy, ya wanna date," she asked.

Herman was elated. The city was living up to its reputation as a city of love. He had barely arrived and already a woman was throwing herself at him, suggesting an amorous rendezvous. "Yes, my dear sweet thing," he replied.

Monica was a bit taken aback because it had been many years since anybody had called her anything like that, but she was not so surprised that she couldn't start the business negotiations. "Ya wanna go upstairs to my room for a date?"

Herman's elation was boundless, that this sophisticated woman of the world should be so smitten with him, so infatuated that she was inviting him to her boudoir. As he gazed on her, he became enraptured and fell in love on that spring morning in San Francisco. Herman had worked for the last several years on a hog farm and his olfactory nerve had gone into suspended animation after the first day so the unwashed wine-sweat smell of Monica didn't bother him. She was rather lumpy and soiled in appearance but less so than the sows who had lately started looking good to him.

"Of course, My Precious Sweetheart. I want to go anywhere with you, anywhere that your heart desires."

"Okay." Monica led the young swain up the stairs and down the hall to her room in the cheap hotel where she both lived and practiced her profession. The hotel manager, if she even saw her tenant, didn't care. She knew what Monica's profession was and sometimes wondered why men would be willing to have sex with her at all; the idea that they would actually pay for it was completely unfathomable. Other than that, the manager didn't care one way or the other, as long as she paid her rent and didn't vomit in the lobby.

When Monica opened the door to her room and place of business, a fetid blast of air poured out, a mixture of sweat, urine, flatus, stale wine and her own body. She was used to it and it didn't bother her. Herman, his sense of smell incapacitated, was also unfazed. Bowing in what he considered a courtly manner, he waved her into the room and followed her, closing and locking the door behind them.

"Do ya wanna fuck," she asked him.

Herman was even more enamored at the earthiness of his new-found love. In the privacy of her boudoir, she could let her desire for him be known without worrying about societal conventions. "Of course, Sweetheart," he replied, moving forward to enfold her in his arms.

Monica stepped away, wanting to get the financial arrangements set first. "It'll cost ya thirty bucks." Knowing what the traffic would bear, she kept her prices low, at least for working girls in San Francisco.

"Of course, my love." Herman felt distressed that this wonderful lady should need to ask money from her lover but he understood. Life was harsh and money was sometimes scarce. With alacrity, he pulled his wallet from his pocket and handed over three ten dollar bills.

When Monica saw his bulging wallet and how willing he had been to pay her, she wished she had asked for more. Just then, though, she was more concerned with getting it over with so she could get the wine that would very soon be an absolute necessity. After stuffing the money under the mattress, she pulled off her shoes and set them aside. Monica unbuttoned and unzipped her skirt and let it drop to the floor, where it was quickly joined by her stained panties. Since she hadn't worn any hose that day, that left her naked below the waist. Monica lay on her back, legs spread and a pillow under her head, prepared to earn the thirty dollars.

His heart close to bursting with even greater love for this delightful and sophisticated lady, Herman pulled off his pants, shoes and underwear, leaving his socks on, and joined her, kneeling between her legs. His sense of smell was dormant, not dead, and the stench that rose from Monica's pussy partially revived it. To Herman, however, it was not a stench, but the aroma of lust and desire and it caused him to love this adorable woman even more, although he would not have believed that possible.

Monica was actually feeling no lust or desire at all, at least not sexual desire, and she was also not lubricating even the smallest amount. Baby oil on his erection would ease his penetration and help her get it over with sooner. She didn't even use a condom because she thought it would take longer for her john to cum if he wore one. Her pussy, stretched wide by the thousands of cocks that had preceded his, easily accommodated Herman's rather small organ and Monica lay back on her bed to wait until he was through. After quickly shoving his cock all the way in, he began his rutting, passionately thrusting back and forth into the woman he loved. Monica moved her face aside for fear he might want to kiss her, but otherwise lay immobile, hoping Herman would finish soon because her need for more wine was starting to get stronger.

A stab of pain suddenly shot through her head and Monica winced and moaned. "Oh, my poor sweetheart, did I hurt you?" Herman asked. "Do you want me to stop?"

That was the last thing that Monica wanted. What she wanted more than anything just then was wine and, to get it, she would have to let the guy finish fucking her so he would leave. "No, no," she answered. "Please don't stop. It feels good. Keep going."

"What a delight my sweetheart is," Herman said to himself. "How she enjoys making love with me. I shall do what she wants." He increased his effort and, in less than a minute, ejaculated heavily into Monica.

"Did you cum yet?" she asked him when she realized that he had stopped shoving his cock in and out of her.

"Yes, Sweetheart," he said while thinking what a wonderful person she was. Although not very perceptive, Herman could see that his darling was in pain but she was still thinking of his pleasure.

"Okay. I gotta go," Monica told Herman, pushing him aside and crawling out from underneath, leaving a trail of semen across one thigh. She paid the price for the sudden movement; a jolt of pain rocketed through her head and turmoil started in her stomach. She knew where she had to go and pulled her skirt up around her ass and fastened it, leaving her panties in a small heap on the floor. Cautiously and avoiding sudden movements, she bent over and took Herman's money, hers now that she had earned it, out from under the mattress and crammed it into her pocket where her room key was.

When she turned around, her john was still lying on the bed and hadn't started putting his clothes back on yet. "You can't stay here, you know," she told him. "You got your money's worth and now I gotta go."

Herman was flabbergasted, unable to understand why he was being dismissed by his beloved. He picked up his shoes and pants and underwear and started to put them back on, but he was too slow to suit Monica. She grabbed him by the arm and hustled him out into the hall, half naked and with an armful of clothing. Still perplexed, he watched her pull the door locked behind them and hurry along the hall and down the stairs on the mysterious errand she hadn't described.

Slowly, he took the doleful walk down the stairs and out the front door of the mystery woman's hotel. With his heart broken and nowhere else to go, he walked to the bus station and sat down to wait for the next bus to the wide spot in the road that he called home. As he sat waiting, his gloom began to lift. He had come to San Francisco to find love and he had succeeded, even though his love had quickly left him. As he further pondered the day's events, his gloom lifted entirely.

"'Tis better," he told himself. "to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

*

Thank you for reading this story. It was fun writing it and I hope you enjoyed it too. Whether you did or not, please express your opinion by voting. Like all writers on Literotica, I appreciate knowing what readers think, either through public comments or email. I always answer anybody who leaves a PC or sends me an email including their address or handle.

Boxlicker101
Boxlicker101
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