Street Art

First night, Berlin. I’m doing preliminary sketches for a big street art piece. I’ve got most of the figures down, but the central one, a nude woman in a classical pose, is escaping me. I’m staying in a hostel dorm with beds for six, four of them occupied. Two by a pair of German brothers, the other by an Australian girl by the name of Diane. They’re in on the project, have volunteered to help with the stencils.

Diane, seeing the difficulty I’m having, agrees to model for me. The Germans guard the door and watch wide eyed as Diane takes her clothes off, piece by piece, shivering a little and blushing. She’s got a body like a Renaissance dryad, with full hips, curved belly, soft, almost luminescent breasts with wide pink nipples. She has large, expressive eyes and a soft mouth, and when she lays on the bed to pose, all three of the rest of us find ourselves awestruck by her. It’s as if she’s stepped out of a painting, but for the black panties she elects to keep on. The sketch is a success.

Second night. Our hostel is in the heart of the Kreuzberg neighborhood, nestled at the end of Görlitzer Park. A few blocks north is the Spree river, fronted by the post-industrial sprawl Berlin is known for. It’s there that we decide to do the piece, on a big crumbling concrete wall scrawled with faded tags. We gray it out first with rollers. Then the Germans hold the first big stencil up against the wall while Diane and I, handkerchiefs tied over our faces, spray in the first layer.

There are three main shape layers in black, gray, and white, and then three small detail stencils in red. When it’s done, we step back to look at our work. A stencil by its nature is a composed of hard edges, solid shapes. This one isn’t perfect, but somehow Diane’s softness still comes through. We crack beers and pass them around, standing for a while just looking at the piece. There’s something deeply satisfying about the transgressive aspect of street art. Like all of that teenage rebellion channeled into something creative and constructive, rather than destructive and chaotic. It fires the nerves.

The rest of the night is a celebration. We end up in the park out front of the hostel, talking quietly in the small hours of the morning. The Germans leave first. They’ve got a train out in six hours, back to Munich, where they’re in uni. There are hugs all round. Then it’s just me and Diane, sitting on a park bench, talking quietly, enjoying the closeness of each other in the warm night. There’s a quiet sort of spell woven around us that neither of us speaks, lest it break.

Third night. The brothers are gone. Diane and I go out for some late night kebab, then drinks. The night before the brothers had to leave, and we took it easy; this night, we don’t. We spent hours talking before the bender sets in in full. It’s late even by Berlin standards when we somehow set upon the idea of visiting the piece, and stumble our way down to the riverfront, past the hippie camp there, to where the mural awaits under the glare of a single streetlamp.

I don’t notice when we start holding each other, just realize suddenly that we are, belly to belly, arms loosely clasped around each other’s backs, gazing at the work that we made. Then we look at each other, and kiss. Memories and impressions in that snapshot way of the truly inebriated; her lips on mine, her hands under my shirt, my hands under hers. All fumbling drunken affection.

There is a moment where she’s pushing me gently away and laughing, “no, we can’t fuck here!” and then we’re stumbling back to the hostel. The room is dark; there are clothes coming off and the touch of skin. And then just sleep.

Fourth morning. I awake with a staggering headache, and a warm softness beside me in the narrow hostel bed. Diane moves sleepily against me, and I screw open my eyes. There’s new luggage; three of other beds newly occupied. All empty. It must be after noon. God, I realize, we’d become that hostel couple. Did we … ? The previous night is a blur.

Diane murmurs and cuddles up against me. Her skin is very soft against mine, and I feel myself getting hard. She moves against me, sliding her leg sleepily up over both of mine, until it presses against my cock. I’m naked. I lift the sheet that’s draped over us, peek beneath. She’s topless, but wearing a little pair of pink panties. She’s so soft. She moves as I watch her, then blinks sleepily. “Morning,” she says, smiling. She leans her face up to mine and kisses me. Despite the hangover, the kiss is still sweet, and she lets it linger. Leaves her leg against my cock, moves it a little, feeling me there.

“I see someone’s already awake,” she says, and slides on top of me. Lets her pussy rest on my cock through the thin silk of her panties. Moves a little on it. Her breasts hang loose and warm against my chest, her nipples hardening. “I vaguely recall badly wanting to fuck you last night,” she says. “I don’t think we quite made it that far.” Her mouth opens a little as she presses her pussy against my cock, moving slowly against it. “How likely you think it is we’ll be interrupted?”

I slide my hands down her back, then down her ass, pulling her panties down as I do. She lets them rest there, pooled at her hips, pinned between us. “Somewhat,” I say.

“Mmm.” She continues to kiss me. “Then I guess we’d better hold onto this sheet.”

I slide my hand down her ass, down her thigh, slip my fingers through the leg of her panties, make a fist, pulling the silk away from her body. “What about these?”

She smiles against my kiss, raises herself up on her knees. I pull her panties down to the middle of her thighs and she shifts, lifts one leg to let me take them all the way off. Then she settles back down on me, not fucking me yet, just laying on me, cock pressed flat against my belly by her pussy. It’s warm and scratches pleasantly, she’s shaved recently. She presses against me, moving in little circles. I groan.

“You hungover?” she says, watching me with a little smile as she moves against my cock.

“A bit.”

“A bit!” She lifts herself off me, kisses my neck. Draws the sheet up over her so we’re covered by it, just my head exposed. “I’m hungover as fuck.” She kisses my collarbone, my chest. Kisses my nipple, sucks at it. I gasp. She lingers, fingers caressing me lightly, tongue and teeth playing with me. Under the covers, her ass moves, and I feel her pussy brush the tip of my cock. Come back to it, settling, working in those same little circles, letting my cock slowly slip between the lips there, until that first rush of warm wetness beneath. She stays there, teasing, drawing it out. “You know what they say,” she says.

I lift the sheet, push it back to her shoulders, look down at her, smiling at me, breasts hanging, nipples caressing my chest with every movement. “What’s that?” I say.

“The best cure for a hangover is a good fuck.” With that, she slides down onto me, falls atop me, kissing me hungrily, restraint abandoned. She’s fucking me hard now, pussy slapping against me, legs flexing, fingers digging into my scalp, her mouth hungry on mine. She starts to pant, lifting off me, hands moving to dig into my chest, her breasts bouncing with every thrust.

Behind her the door opens, and we here a startled “Oh! Ah … dreadfully sorry!” in a very posh accent, and then the door slams shut. Diane collapses on top of me, pulling the sheet over us in a sudden fit of giggles. “I think we just scarred a British person,” she says, but as she finishes the sentence her pussy’s already moving again, irresistible now, and in the warm private little world under the sheet she gazes at me with those luminous eyes, looks right down into me as her mouth opens and she lets the desire take her over.

She fucks me more slowly now. Her eyes are deep and fully of mysteries, her skin soft, her breasts ripe, nipples flushed and hard. Her hips roll against me, and her pussy spasms against my cock as she begins to come. Her breath stops, her fingers clench against my chest, her mouth opens, and her eyes release her soul. And as the heat explodes through me, my thighs flexing under her, my stomach clenching, my soul is released too, and in coming, we crash into one another, collide, twisting together in that sort of vulnerable twining that can never truly be undone.

She shakes as the orgasm leaves her body, and I find myself shaking too. Slowly she lowers herself down onto me, sweaty skin against sweaty skin, and rests her chin on my chest, still looking into my eyes. Then she kisses me.

“I’m here for a few more days,” she says.

Cover image courtesy of Stephen Lustig on Flickr. For more travel erotica by Decker Shane, check out his author page on Amazon.

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