Irishwoman in London

[Bonaparte]

Colette braced herself for the ordeal ahead. She was a 31 year old Irishwoman from a small town in the south-west. Her life was a mess. She had just broken with her partner, having to abandon her illegitimate child to her outraged parents. Shunned by her community, she was obliged to emigrate in search of a better life. For this was 1986 – hard times indeed in Ireland. Like so many young Irishwomen cursed by fate, Colette trusted to finding a new life in London, the Big Smoke. She packed her bags, took a ship to Wales, and from there by bus came to London. She stayed in a wretched hovel of a flat in a poor part of North London, frustrated by cash problems, hounded by her busybody bitch of a landlady, tormented by loneliness and a growing feeling that she was trapped – trapped in her life, going nowhere slowly, unable to go home because of shame, but rapidly running out of time if she was to survive in London. She had tried several job vacancies but was unsuccessful, mainly because, traditionally sheltered by her devout parents, she had no skills for anything, as well as a complete lack of confidence in the face of men, especially English men. She did, however, have certain assets – physical ones. Tall, with a pretty, fresh face, her long auburn hair caressed her shoulders; her chest was frankly huge with pouting breasts that seemed to burst out of her never-big-enough bra. Her hips were large and curvaceous, her bottom pert, fine and imposing. Her legs were both slender and shapely – fucking gorgeous in high heels in particular, so much so that she normally wore flat shoes to avoid too much unwanted attention, especially as she almost always wore skirts (a good Irish Catholic girl had to, provided they weren't too short!!). After five weeks in London, with the pennies running out and faced with imminent eviction, Colette determined to do her absolute utmost to get a job. At last, she came across in the papers a vacancy for a pub job near her area. Back home she had some experience working in her uncle's pub. Perhaps this would suit her. Besides, at this stage she would take almost anything to survive.

The pub was a dive called the Briar's Arms, a kind of traditional working class place, dark and dank, smelly with the odour of cigarettes, stale ale, and the pungent aroma of rough working class men. Monday evening Colette arrived for the interview with the proprietor, a Mr. Harris. She dressed well – but not provocatively – for the occasion; a nice, simple light brown dress that hugged her shoulders and chest very tightly but not her hips or legs, ending in a frilly hem a good bit below the knees. The place was almost empty for it was a dull Monday evening, though Colette could not but notice the leering looks and broad smiles from chain-smoking burly men in their forties or fifties as she strove through the door towards the office behind the bar where Mr Harris said over the phone he would meet her. Shy and nervous, she knocked on the door and then entered at his command. She was a little repulsed by him at first site: Harris was sloppily dressed in filthy trousers and dirty old shirt, his hair was pathetic and greasy, limp on one side of his head, his face sweaty and craggy, teeth few and bad. He perked up on first sight of her, nasty little smile across his face, eyes fixed on her. "Come in love, sit down there, relax and be comfortable." Colette complied, being careful to not cross her legs as she saw him staring at her with fixed expression. He came round in front of the desk – probably to get a full look at her – and pressed his arse up against the desk, now staring down at her, leering and smiling more than before, fag burning in his hand from which he took the occasional drag. Despite Colette's not crossing her legs, the hem of her dress once she had sat down nicely swept up to her knees anyway, revealing very juicy calves indeed, and, as for her bulging chest, well Mr Harris' eyes took a keen interest in those two pretty footballs indeed.

Her accent and then her 'confession' quickly identified her as Irish – and as he took another drag from the fag his eyes lighted up again. "Never had a Mick workin' here before love" he smiled, as Colette cast down her eyes in embarrassment at his condescension – which he then laughed off, knowing full well he had the power and she…. did not. Then he grabbed a chair and sat down, very close to her, so close she could smell his awful breath, the stench of decades of imbibing Majors and strong whisky. She squirmed uncomfortably as he leered closer at her, probing her, with questions about her background, why she had come to London, where she lived, about her kid back home, was she single; "Over there love, they must 'ave thought you was a slag or someit, eh" he laughed, as Colette, mortified, went red in the face, and, as if getting away from him, unconsciously cocked her right leg over her left, in the process exposing rich shapely thighs and calves. She was shocked at what she had done, and terrified by Harris' look of gaping mouth and glazed eyes practically penetrating her legs. Desperately – but not wanting to offend him by dropping her legs (making it too obvious she noticed his lust) – she hastily pulled her hem down over her knees, not quite succeeding. Colette was sweating now, nervous, embarrassed, hated being there, but then Harris laughed a right belly laugh and whammed his arm down on her cocked right leg, planting his palm firmly on her shapely thigh, leaving it there, and then saying "Right my little Mick, don't worry love, ye got the job, come round tomorrow at 8, we'll start you on the night shift." Colette didn’t know what to say, but noticed that Harris, his face just a foot from her, kept his hand firmly on her leg, his fingers digging her flesh a bit. Pretending to smile, she nervously bobbed her head saying "thank you, thank you very much", and only then did he take his hand off her leg. She immediately stood up and bolted for the door, only for Harris to call after her, "Now wait a minute my little Mick, not so fast!" He told her to sit down again, and then – backing off as if trying to make her more agreeable – 'professionally' told her the rules of the place: "Number one, customer always comes first, they're a bit of a rough crowd 'ere love, so take it on the chin, alright; number two, I'm the boss, what I says goes, alright, you're on trial for a bit 'ere love before we makes you permanent, alright; number three, haven't had a lass workin' here for nearly a year love, and she was fair old know what I mean, and we certainly never had a Mick girl, novelty, know what I mean, so take advantage of it, for this place and yerself, alright! Dress, I mean, for fuck sake love, don't wear that in this place alright, something nice. You are a looker, and show it you know. Nice top, show some a those lovely tits, nice skirt, you got good legs too, and for fuck sake don't wear flat shoes, I'm not sayin' be a fuckin fashion model, but show a bit, you know, of this and that. Nice Irish bird like you should pull in a few punters, and be nice to 'em whatever they say to you… alright!" Colette, desperate to get the hell out of there, promptly agreed, and fled home.

That night she had a good long chat with herself. Did she really want this job? Was it really worth it, putting up with English condescension, sexual innuendo from that bastard? On the other hand, what choice did she really have? Finally she agreed to do it, at least give it a try for a week or so; pay wasn't that bad anyway according to the advert, and the hours were flexible. The following afternoon, she got ready, remembering Harris' fashion advice. She put on her best blouse, a lovely purple one with a big 'v' which, together with a large push-up black belt, magnificently broadcast her bulging chest. She wore a simple black skirt which beautifully hugged her arse and hips – tightly – ending at the knees, sexy slit at the back almost up to her arse. Nice black high heels which accentuated the gorgeous shape of her full legs – the latter were hardly tanned but they weren't pasty white either. Rich red lipstick, tastefully put on. She hadn't looked so fuckin' hot in years. Her appearance in the mirror both raised her confidence for this night – the beginning of her new life – and also left her nervous – what would those English bastards in that smelly hell-hole say to her. Before she left, she got on her pretty knees and prayed, prayed like she hadn't in years.

Tuesday evening she arrived at the pub, on time, pushing the creaking door and walking into the place, then stood by the door nervously, looking at four men at a table whose jaws nearly dropped on sight of her, followed by smiles and lip licking. Hesitantly, Colette walked towards Mr Harris' office, her fine bare legs very attractive in high heels, her skirt clutching her shapely arse, her big hips swaying from side to side on those heels, her boobs bopping, her head held high, pretending not to notice a few whistles and catcalls. She couldn't find Harris, went down the backway tunnel, and then he emerged behind her, "Hello love, right on time." She turned round to face him, extremely uncomfortable at his obvious pleasure in her appearance. He utterly stank of fags and alcohol, wearing the same clothes from yesterday. "Well love, you certainly put a nice little effort in didn’t you?" She nodded and then asked how she might begin. Suddenly professional, he barked "Right, those lot over there, ask em what they want and get the fuck on with it, eh."

So it began. Colette fixed them drinks and brought it to the table. The lads introduced themselves: Harvey, Ted, Bill and Fred. They were all in their forties or fifties, badly dressed, either unemployed or poorly paid, rough and battered by life, somewhat smelly. Colette tried to be friendly, smiling, giving a little banter, which they obviously enjoyed. They really perked up on realising she was Irish. Eagerly, they quizzed her about her background, her life, why she was here, what she thought of London so far, and then, with evil grins, what she thought of Englishmen!! – followed by good natured laughing at her shocked embarrassment. They 'played' with her for a while, sometimes very friendly ("Ah good one love, cheers pet"), sometimes condescending ("Ye got nice manners for a Mick love!!), sometimes downright sexual. Increasingly there was more of this, mixed in with the condescending: "Oooohhhh, you got lovely legs love"; "Better be careful lads, she might be IRA, you know how they love surprising us in pubs!"; "Yeah, she might be armed, looks like she's carrying two big bombs in her blouse!!!" Colette got flustered – which they noticed – and then they riled her more and more. She was also bothered by Harris behind the bar puffing away, clearly enjoying all this, and also by the strange fact that the shutters were down on the windows – strange for a bar trying to attract customers.

As the lads got more and more drunk, their spirits stiffened both by drink and the sight of Colette's bobbing breasts, shapely legs, the slit in her skirt hinting at delicious thighs, her pert arse, the squeaky sound of her heels on the cold wooden floor, so they became harder on her: "Fuckin come here love." She reluctantly sidled up to them, as they blaringly stared at her tits, her legs and her arse. "Another one love". She brought another round of drinks to them, not noticing them winking at each other and whispering. Then Fred, the eldest of the four, began patting her arse as she put the drinks on the table, and then stopped patting and began squeazing. "Fuck you, ye bastard" she exclaimed in a strong Irish accent that only made them hornier. They laughed, and then frowned, getting hostile now, while Fred quickly ran his hand up her skirt and squeezed her pantied bottom. She slapped him and stormed away, "Fuckin English bastards" as they hooted and jeered after her. Harris stopped her dead in her tracks, "Now my little Mick, ye can't do that, remember", with a sick grin, "Go over and apologise to those gentlemen." Reluctantly, full of blatant contempt for them, she walked over and apologised, meeting only icy stares in return. Then Bill, a burly, bearded bloke, deliberately dropped his beer on the floor. Colette stood there for a moment, frozen, until Harris behind her – right on cue it seemed – said in a clipped voice, "Clean it up Paddy." Colette took a rag and then – the pub so silent you could hear a pin drop – she bent down, her heels squeaking the floor, mopping up the beer, the hem on her skirt now way up her glistening thighs, legs a little apart, as the lads, tongues in their lips, mouths wide, stared in as close as they could – Colette ignored their heavy breathing as she finished the mopping. Then she sprang up and returned to the bar, sensing a collective male combustion of hormones behind her. She felt a little dizzy with this overpowering male – English! – lust for her.

"Over 'ere love, we're not finished" said Harvey. With Harris staring her down, Colette slowly walked back to the table. "Yes!" "Another round then love", in slow, firm, arrogant tone, as if they were now ordering this Irish bitch to serve them! She sensed what was coming – more humiliation, especially from that old geezer Fred. She brought the tray over, put the drinks out and then stopped. Fred had his hand up her skirt again, patting her pantied arse, she stood frozen for about thirty seconds, looking at the men all staring at her for her reaction, then, as if pushing her to react, Fred slid his hand down to her thighs, then her arse again, then her thighs, then between her legs, still she didn’t react, behind her Harris was watching intently, smoking frantically, his cock swelling at the knowledge of what was really coming next, still Colette didn't move, then Fred – the utter basatrd – testing her further, started stroking up, up, up between her legs till finally he began fingering her pantied pussy, about to insert his finger and…
Suddenly Colette poured a glass of beer on his head "Ye fuckin English bastard!!!" and stormed for the door. Harris ran after her as the men cursed her "Fuckin' Irish cunt, we'll teach you." Harris grabbed her, swung her around, "You silly little Irish bitch, you'll pay for this!" he dragged her, to the cheers of the men, who saluted him by his first name Nick, proof that they were pals of his indeed, her over to the bar area. He pinned her forward on the bar, her arse pointing now in the direction of the men who all got up and came closer to see, howling and jeering, "Do it man, do it, come on." Harris hungrily as well as angrily gave her arse a good feel up, rummaging her short black skirt, the slit in its back under the pressure of his hand revealing tasty, juicy thighs. Then, to the squealing delight of the men, followed by gasps, he swept the skirt up to her waist, revealing a nice pair of frilly white knickers. Quickly, he pulled them down, now exposing her big creamy arse. He then promptly slapped her, again, again, and again, louder and louder, as the lads roared their approval, counting 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, "Come on, beat the Irish cunt!" Colette swore and cursed them, but was utterly helpless, and she knew it. Then Harris just as quickly put up her panties again and restored her skirt to its normal length, leaving her off the bar. He knew he had given the lads an exhilarating taster… now it was up to them…..

Colette was utterly furious, half sobbing, half angry as hell, "Fucking English bastards, English cunts" as she pathetically tried to hit a highly amused Harris who easily controlled her. The four others were closing in around her as Harris flipped her over to Fred, who pawed her, then to Bill who pawed her; she was a piece of meat now. Next, Harris ran over and firmly locked the bar door. Nobody could see or hear anything on the outside, and the whole area was quiet this night anyway. Colette became increasingly frightened and shaky at seeing the four hungry lusty men surround her. Then, it was too late. Petrified, she stood there, as they came almost smelling her. Finally, Harvey broke the tension by grabbing one of her tits, Colette began to wail, now their lust just exploded. Like a pack of animals they set on her, grabbing her by the waist and her legs, their combined fury lifting her up and then throwing her on the floor. They jumped on top of her like starving cats on a helpless mouse, violently grabbing her arms, her legs, spreading her limbs, roughly chucking her skirt up, grinning and spitting into her face, she fought back as furiously as she could, her wild Irish spirit manifesting itself in curses, spitting back, and kicking like a mad bitch at her attackers – but this, and their grabbing – only exposed her legs fully. On sight of her panties, they grabbed her privates, Colette howled at her soft part, her dignity, being brutally manhandled, felt, squeezed, grabbed, pained. There was nothing she could do now; Bill and Ted grabbed her legs, pulling them apart wide, rubbing them as they did so, while Fred started pulling her knickers down, revealing a huge black bush – loud fucking jeers and hooting. They squeezed her cunt, fingering it. Colette still tried to resist, but her arms were also held tight, in fact so tight nearly behind her head that her already massive tits were almost bursting out of her purple blouse. Noticing this, Harvey began rubbing her chest while Fred, tongue sticking out looking at her and groaning like an animal, fisted her cunt, causing Colette to wail and groan, her mouth wide apart. Harris watched and watched, chain smoking and rubbing his cock inside his pants as he watched this sexy Irish bitch be degraded – and this was just the beginning of something he had planned with his mates ever since that interview. Harvey now ripped her blouse open, massive bra and boobs, the screaming, laughing, jeering, hooting was now loud as fuck as hands roughly pawed her bra, her tits, the bra soon crumbling under the pressure, then her big tits flopped out – big soft balls of flesh – which were savaged by hands, tongues, fingers, clawing, sucking, slobbering, as other hands fisted her cunt and violently rubbed her shapely legs, skin scratched. The pressure of these four rough English bastards was too much, she could scarcely breathe, her tits and cunt were fucking sore, her legs scratched to bleeding in parts, her high heels twitching pathetically and poignantly. To add to her torment, they opened her mouth and stuffed whisky down to her throat till she nearly vomited, then forced her to smoke their fags, as other focused on tormenting her cunt, her stomach, her legs.

"Right, fuck the Irish slag" said Fred. They were all rubbing themselves, beginning to strip their bottom halves. Fred went first, "Hold her hard, and wide lads" as he moved into position between her legs. No mercy. He fucked her in a second, ramming it home as the lads jeered, slapping hands, cheering him on. Colette screamed and wailed at the pain of his cock inside her, she had never been violently taken like this, he fucked and fucked her as other hands suppressed her sobbing, stuffed into her mouth or rubbed her big tits as he fucked and fucked and fucked. Then he flipped their hands away "I wanna hear the paddy scream and I wanna see her tits." He rammed home harder now, fucking drilling her, her body quivered like a machine gun, her massive boobs vibrating madly, she finally yelled an intense scream as Fred screamed in turn and finally came. Next Bill, the quietest of the four so far, but eager to make up for lost time; he fucked her cunt, grabbed her legs and raised them high and then onto his back, "Stab me back, bitch" he ordered, and she complied, stabbing his back with her legs and heels, thereby squeezing him deeper inside her. He fucked and fucked, and then brutally began eating her tits, mauling them and leaving teeth marks with his frenzied lust. Then he came. Harris by now was jerking wildly, frantically stubbing out fags and lighting another one as he was positively vibrating by this stage too. Colette cried, sobbed, prayed to herself. Next Harvey. He fucked her, shoving his face into hers, licking her cheeks, lips and forehead, her eyes closed with utter disgust and shame, and then he switched to licking her breasts and sucking her nipples – he slobbered saliva all over her torso and face, grabbing her hair, his stinking armpits on her face as he squirted inside her, squirt, squirt, squirt. Then he got up and slapped her, "Irish cunt!" Next, Ted. He wanted real action this fucker. "Spread her real real fuckin wide lads." Grinning and laughing like hyenas, they burst into anti-Irish song and revelry as she was spread practically 180 degrees both arms and legs, Colette howled at the pain of this stretching for she was already ravaged. Her cunt was stretched as wide as possible, then Ted began sucking on it like a pig, tonguing her cunt, drool pissing into her tubes, then got up and mounted her stretched body, the deepest fuck of all, raping directly into her innards. Colette screamed so fuckin loud Harris momentarily got frightened that people outside or neighbours would hear. Then Ted fucked and fucked, slow, deep, hard, his face a grimace of purest evil, spitting on her, "Saucy Irish cunt, fuckin' Irish whore" like he was taming a wild horse that needed special punishment, slapping her tits around, even punching them as he took his time. Meanwhile, the others rubbed and sucked her legs, leaving her helpless high heels on for extra kinky effect. Then they dropped her legs which naturally heaved up as if to protect herself from the invasion of her cunt. Growling now like an animal herself, Colette moved her legs up and down in involuntary response to Ted's pumping, up and down, up and down, her heels scratching the floor, her mouth groaning, as the men watched fascinated as her shapely high heeled legs moved up and down, up and down, with each brutal thrust by Ted. Finally, he too came, and then slapped Colette before departing her cum-drenched body.

They weren't finished yet. They sang songs, insulted her country, spat on her, poured whisky on her reddened tits, half danced around as Harris kept smoking, watching intently, rubbing himself. Colette dragged up her legs and closed them and tried to cover her tits with her ruined blouse, softly weeping and praying to herself. After about a short while, Harris for once spoke up, "Want that arse?" The lads stopped – silence – and gazed down at Colette's crumpled up body. Slowly, then a little faster, they put the drinks and fags down, and set on her again, not as viciously as before, but with just as much determination. At this Colette finally lost it, exclaiming "Noooo, noo, not any more please, please, pleeeeaaase", but it was useless. "Flip her over." She was turned over onto her front, her big arse jutting high in the air. The skirt was yanked up as her arms and legs were held firm, knees bending into her back. She was totally flattened, helpless, they patted her arse, felt it, then multiple hands in unison pulled down her knickers and pawed her arse, spreading those ass cheeks, kissing, smelling her arse - a pure physical frenzy now, even tongues inside her arse for lubrication, even her shit was attractive. Their cocks swelled with absolute perversion, the thrill of sheer disgustingness, fingers dipping into her arse too. "We'll shove up this shit bitch, don't you worry lass" said Fred. They stretched her out, spreading her legs, raising her arse a bit and spreading its cheeks. Harris now redoubled his rubbing, using both hands now on his cock. Realising what was coming, and never violated in that nether region before, Colette begged, hollered and finally screamed "NOOOOOOOO" in a protest so loud it literally shook the glasses on the tables. This spurred them on ever more, slapping her, kneeling into her torso as extra punishment. Fred then fucked her arse, slowly at first – it was clearly virgin territory – but then deeply, his cock rigidly locked in position as Colette's tongue nearly burst out of her mouth at the pain and absolute utter degradation. He pumped and pumped and pumped as Colette gasped for breath. Then Ted got off her, came round, raised up her face, rubbed his cock on her sweated red cheeks and dribbled cum on her face and hair as Fred finally came inside. There was no hollering this time, it was just deliberate – almost professional – degradation. They took turns in her arse, feeling under her chest, grabbing at her udders, groaning in their brutal lust, expressing total satisfaction in their sheer physical enjoyment of this helpless Irish fuckmeat. On and on they came, raping her arse, methodically squeezing her jugs, and then, to add to her discomfort, Fred, then Harvey, then Bill forced their cocks into her mouth – double fucked!! Her lovely body gyrated under the pressure of cocks at both ends, Fred squirted inside her, the other two pulled out and sprayed her face and hair, and then as an extra sweetener rubbed the cum all over her face and hair, as others continued to methodically fuck her arse, Bill also raising her up and rubbing her thighs as he did so. This ass rape went on far longer than the previous action, Harris finally flooded his trousers and promptly collapsed on the floor.

Finally, they were finished. Colette was left totally crumpled up and weeping, as the four lads slowly left, too exhausted and drained themselves to even cheer. Harris, still chain-smoking, calmly looked down at her, an expression of mild disgust. Then, she stared at him out of the corner of her reddened eyes. His last insult was probably the worst of the night for her;
"Not bad for your first night love, not bad at all, just maybe should have been a little faster in your reactions to customers… Cheerio."