Note: I am writing this story more than a year later.
Saturday afternoon, I was turning a corner onto Unter den Linden, when I suddenly spot a dusky woman standing there, studying a map. She had dark, fizzy hair, and packed a nice set of curves along with all the obvious signs of a tourist: Converse All Stars, rucksack, looking lost.
Opening her wasn’t hard at all. I was greeted by a radiant smile and sparkling eyes. It was 6 p.m. and she must have been quite bored exploring by herself. As expected, she was a 31 year old solo-traveler, looking to “explore the wilder side of Berlin”. I took her number and we agreed to meet for dinner at Que Pasa. That’s right - I took a Latino girl, who travelled across the Atlantic, to a place to eat Mexican home food. Luckily, she didn’t mind.
We were sitting on a table across each other in the back of the restaurant. I wore a dress shirt that day, and spoke really slow English, as her English was terrible. Laying on the comfort thick… We spoke about her work, her travels, and adventures. After a shot of Tequila, I felt I could drop the “European gentleman” pretense, and we started to engage in deep eye contact. The vibe got a lot more sexual despite our polite conversation. She knew, that I knew, that she knew where this was going…
“I know a great cocktail bar around the corner. Let’s grab one drink,” I said. Unfortunately, I don’t remember the details from the bar, but as we excited the venue, I kissed her ten steps later. Her kiss was furious, and for a moment I feared she would bite off my lips. This girl was gagging for it! It was only 8 p.m., so I suggested to check out the East Side Gallery (strategically located 5 minutes from my apartment).
She agreed, but asked me to accompany her to her hostel room first, to drop off her bag. We were alone in her dorm of 12. I remember pushing her against the wall as she kissed me, then onto the bed… “No, not here, someone might come in,” she whispered, breathing in my ear.
I don’t remember whether we actually went to the East Side Gallery, or just straight to my apartment. What I do remember, is the craziness of what came soon after…
As we were sitting on my couch, furiously making out, she climbed on top of me and started grinding on my dick through my jeans. Moments later, she was lying on her back, with her head tilted backwards, as I was massaging her G-spot with my middle finger. At that point, I wasn’t used to fast, passionate sex, and was feeling quite proud about my new found confidence.
That quickly changed, as she suddenly shot her head back up, and opened her mouth to let out a low-voiced wail. I felt a stream of warm, transparent liquid splatter all over my fingers and forearm, soaking the couch. My porn “education” taught me that some girls, indeed, squirt, but I had always imagined it to be a small stream in real life. This lady was spraying all over my meticulously selected charcoal-gray IKEA cushions.
I felt uncomfortable, but her “si, papi, si!” reassured me that I must be doing something right. Though, arching over her, with my finger deep inside her and her wails ringing through my head, I felt like John Constantine exorcising a demon. My dick promptly went limp. “Err, let’s go to my bed,” I said, where there was more of the same, but with more fluid.
To my amazement A) I got myself hard again and B) she kept squirting even while I was fucking her. My scientific mind was aghast. Yet, I didn’t have much time to ponder where she was storing all that liquid because the protective sheet that covered my mattress wouldn’t last long under this barrage. I started improvizing and bounced her under my shower, where we fucked against the warm, wet tiles. Finally, I could relax, and work towards my satisfaction.
This whole ordeal must have awakened something from a twisted corner of my mind: I noticed the toilet from the corner of my eye, giving birth to a squalid idea. Dragging her out of the shower, I commanded her to ride me like a shitty king, sitting on the closed lid of my porcelain throne. We were still dripping from the shower. She started bouncing on top of me, awkwardly slipping down my thighs on each landing, and slapping my face with her wet tits. I was, at last, royally enjoying this encounter!
My mind drifted: I remembered reading a few months ago that some men were approaching women in the streets. “Can you really just start talking to a random girl in the street in broad daylight?” I naively wondered that day. Putting the theory to practice, I now had a girl from the opposite side of the planet squirting all over my furniture four hours after meeting her. I grinned, delighting in my newly discovered identity.
The smirk was promptly wiped off my face by a loud croak: some structural component of the toilet had finally yielded under the battering of her hips. She stopped to look at me. I panicked, fearing the porcelain base had cracked. Luckily, it was just the plastic support of the toilet lid that was shattered to pieces - no biggie.
The evening ended with a wholesome “Spanish for beginners” lesson from her, as we sipped a cup of tea on my couch, both dutifully ignoring the wet spot that laid there as a testament to our degeneracy.
She came back the next day for another round on the bed, where I had diligently put a double layer of towels on top of the protective sheet before I opened the door.