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To this day, the twenty-first of March remains my favourite day of the year. Now I know what you’re thinking: it’s probably because it’s my birthday or the day that I got a promotion. Perhaps, even because it’s sometimes one of the days when summer reveals itself to the nation through the premature omen of unseasonable weather. However, you’d be wrong on all accounts. The twenty-first of March is my favourite day simply because, two years ago, I managed to fuck three different women in one single day.When the sunlight hit the bobbled bedsheets of the dusty, stuffy room I woke in, I stretched and yawned. Next to me, the stranger was sleeping, her face full of makeup, smeared with flattering reds in her cheeks and clown-like blues around her eyes. I patted my cock. Bone dry. I used that as enough evidence to reassure me that we had indeed not had sex the night previous. Sitting up, I fetched my jeans and began to put on my shoes, when I heard her croaky, northern accent behind me.“Where you going, big fella?” the stranger asked, her dry voice like a percussion instrument, her generously-sized tits swaying in their unsensible, gaudy pink lace bra. I shrugged.“Gonna go fetch some brekkie down the cafe.” I hoped she didn’t ask for any food. I’d already forked out on an Uber home and a kebab for her, which didn’t even make it past the curb, dropping it on the pavement, its greasy contents sprawled everywhere. Without warning, she crawled over her sun-faded duvet towards me, unzipped my jeans, and freed half of it, starting to lick my tip. Her smudged, rose-red lips over my cock, made it thump and pulse as she ran a warm, sticky tongue up and down my shaft like an artist working a canvas. She guided my hands behind her head of ginger hair, prompting me to face fuck her, to which I obliged, thrusting my cock violently down her throat, aroused at mecidiyeköy escort the strange sucking and gagging sounds coming from her stuffed mouth and dripping chin. Removing my cock, I looked down at her. She closed her eyes in dazed anticipation, as I slapped my prick against her cheeks like a mallet against a kettledrum.“I got my period last night,” the stranger said, almost as if to tease me.“OK?” I said, slapping my cock on her nose playfully, “So… what does that mean, for me?” The stranger paused for a moment, before biting her lip.“It means,” she began, turning away from me, arching her butt, revealing a white thong wedged between her enormous backside, etched with faint ripples of cellulite, “that I want you to pump my fat arse and leave me with a load that I can play with and feast on all afternoon.”Moments later, my cock, slathered in the dregs of lube left in her scrunched bottle of KY Jelly, a finger full of Vaseline, and a gob full of spit, was prying her virginal arsehole open. I watched the thin blue tail of a tampon trail out of her stubbly cunt, pulling on her plaited hair like a stubborn mare, calling her every degrading name under the sun until finally, shooting a sticky load of semen deep inside her. After she sucked me deep, cleaning my cock, tenderly, I asked her what she wanted from the cafe, but we both knew that I wouldn’t be back, perhaps ever.Hopping into my Astra, I eased out into the road and made my way towards The Barrowman pub. It was nearly midday. Although I felt nauseous, and indeed hungry, what I needed was a nice cold pint. Hair of the dog is more important than a dog having his day, or his dinner (in my case, breakfast). Taking a shortcut, down Shaftesbury road, I revved my engine, bopping my head along to the breakbeat of a hypnotic D skinny, like one of those models you might şişli escort see at a fashion show, with wacky-looking celebrities in the front row. She had a bird-like head, her tawny hair joined into a ponytail, wearing an immodest denim skirt that rose up towards her crotch. Her face was heavy with sadness.“You OK, love?” I asked her“Yeah. Yeah, I’m grand,” she said nonchalantly.“Need a lift somewhere?” I asked. She sat there. Finally, she agreed with a soft nod, entering the car and sitting in silence. She offered me a cigarette, which I accepted, the two of us smoking away while the music played. She told me that she’d just gone to visit her boyfriend, who she’d caught in bed with another woman— her sister’s best friend, Lacie Peters, who based on the stories that followed, was apparently not content in having shagged five other women’s fellas that year alone.“I guess I knew it was coming,” the girl said, throwing her cigarette butt out of the passenger window, before lighting another. “I’d caught him wanking over her Instagram photos. Twice. He was a fucking fuckboy.”“Was he a good shag at least?” I pried, trying to lighten the mood. The girl shrugged, indifferently.“Fine. His brother was better.”I didn’t bother asking the details of how she knew this; it seemed like too much drama for one day. As we zoomed down the sparsely populated lanes woven around town, I couldn’t help but smell the miasma of her cheap Red Jeans perfume; admire her sizeable breasts beneath her Primark, black tank top. Help but wonder what was lurking beneath her tiny Boohoo denim skirt; a skirt so short that it might as well have been a strip of indigo gaffer tape.She asked me if I knew Ashford pool, and saying yes, submitted to her request of heading there. Along the way she told me how her boyfriend had never made her come, nor squirt during sex before, despite their numerous efforts; watching porn, playing with toys, and even inviting his mate Darren along to spit roast her. The girl had a nice face; a kind one that had once been innocent, but had been tainted and hardened over the years by tears, blowjobs, and deceitful men. As we parked up in front of the reservoir, a storm cloud loomed over the surrounding woodland.“Do you think I’m buff?” the girl asked, sincerely.“Of course,” I said, almost too quickly. “Wait— how old are you?”“Seventeen.”“How many lads have you had?” I asked, curiously. She counted with her fingers.“Mmm— like, seventeen? About that.” I laughed to myself, accepting another cigarette from her. Watching a mallard flap its wings in the distance, taking off in flight, I felt a hand on my leg.“You can fuck me if you want,” the girl said to me, indifferently. “I don’t mind. I shaved my fanny for my boyfriend, but it’s not like he’s interested. Plus I’m on the pill. You could come inside me ten whole times, and nothing would happen, they’re that strong. Plus, I’m really tight, you know. All the lads know that. Seventeen cocks and still tight, like a designer vagina.” Raising her nimble lower legs onto the dashboard, she parked her scuffed ballerina flats, parting her legs for me to see. Her bare, unclothed, teenage pussy was hairless, her swollen vulva lightly speckled with ingrown hairs; the fallout from razor shaving. Her chubby bump, accented with thick pink labia that trailed down like a turkey’s neck, smelled like floral strawberries and faintly of something like hairspray. Reaching over to her crotch, I started playing with her pussy, teasing her lips with slow stroked and prods as she got wetter and wetter; wet so quickly that I nearly came myself from her excitement.“Ah—,” she moaned, excitedly, “Uh— yeah slide two fingers inside me. Like that— uh, fuck. Three now. Ow! Uh— yes baby.” I handled her legs, spreading them wider across the dashboard. “Finger-fuck my tight fanny.” Deeper, I fingered her, stimulating my cock with my free hand.