In the 1960s and -70s a lot of perfectly good small English towns around the perimeter of London decided they needed to modernise, partly to develop themselves as desirable homes for an increasing number of people moving out of city slums, and partly because destroying the architectural past and replacing it with the modern concrete Brutalist style was the high fashion of the era. The process was stimulated by the fact that the conservation of historic buildings, streets, and urban layouts was at the time entirely up to municipal councils rather than the national cultural organisations subsequently created to try and make sure no further damage was done to our country’s architectural heritage. As will become apparent, these facts form the physical background to this story, which takes place at an advanced stage of the physical destruction of my home town’s ancient centre, where a market square and shopping streets that dated back to the 14th century had, at the time it takes place, been largely but not totally wiped out.

At the same time as it was pursuing a negative campaign of modernisation by destruction, my town’s council was attempting to prove its contemporary relevance by introducing new institutions to our cultural life. One of these was the Summer Carnival.

Carnival. It usually has one of two meanings. Either it’s the conventional carne vale — ‘farewell, meat!’ — of the European Catholic world, immediately preceding the fast of Lent. Or it’s the Caribbean version of the celebration, in England traditionally centred around the London Notting Hill Carnival established and run by the city’s West Indian community at the end of August each year. Ours was neither. The town wasn’t conspicuously Catholic, and its Caribbean inhabitants — although they always won the annual prize for best float and costumes in the Saturday afternoon parade — participated more out of an amused cultural obligation than because they’d played any part in creating this newly-devised “tradition.”

Still, it was a good excuse to hang out on the streets on what was usually a reasonably sunny day in June and, for those of us who’d just turned 18 and had little money to lurk anonymously in shop doorways or alleys getting lightly wasted on cheap cider or beer we’d clubbed together to buy.

This particular year I’d spent the afternoon watching the parade from the window of my grandfather’s pool hall above a men’s tailoring business in the old market square. Grandad was a retired military officer with a lifelong affection for alcohol that had led to this ideal retirement job. He could spend all day nipping at a hip flask of whisky between beers bought for him by friendly regulars. He’d already slipped me a couple of bottles of lager, so I was feeling quite mellow by the time I left, having seen that the stage at the top of the square was being set up for the evening’s bands and sound system. I stepped from the dark narrow staircase at the side of the tailoring shop into a warm, slightly humid early evening laden with the smells of diesel and Hot fat from the burger vans and that faint tang of warm tarmac which hovers around town centres after the weather has stayed Hot and rain-Free for three or more days. People were hanging out of the doors and windows of the pubs that surrounded the square, and clusters of kids were beginning to drift into the space, some of whom I recognised.

At the other side of the road I spotted Tom Harrison with a carrier bag that I guessed contained booze of some description. Even more interesting, he was accompanied by two girls.

Tom wasn’t a special friend of mine, but we got on reasonably well. Tonight, though, as soon as he spotted me he called out and waved frantically to attract me over. One of the girls, tall with long blonde hair, wearing a floaty Indian print dress, I recognised as Claire Jones, someone a lot of my male contemporaries had aspired to date over the years. I’d even snogged her myself at a Christmas party the previous year, though she wasn’t really my type, if it’s possible to know what that is at such an early stage of one’s sexual and romantic explorations. She looked slightly less enthusiastic than Tom, but waved too.

The other girl, a head shorter than Claire, with shoulder-length mousey brown hair and wearing a tight scoop-necked black T-shirt over denim shorts, I didn’t know.

“This is Emma” Tom said as I joined them. “Emma Bright.”

Emma said ‘Hi’ and smiled in a noncommittal way. She had a Roman nose and dark eyes, which contrasted with Claire’s more delicate, pale features. She looked like someone who knew herself, rather than inhabiting the fashionably ethereal image her friend did so well. She had small, well-proportioned round breasts held, braless, by the stretchy fabric of her top, square shoulders, and strong brown legs. I didn’t know if she was My Type either, but hell, she was a girl.

“What’s in the bag?” I said.

“Cider.” Tom nodded across the square to where a police car was parked. “If we’re going to drink it, though, best not do it in the open. What say we go to the bus station?”

“OK.” I’d only been out for five minutes and already had an offer of girls and booze. The evening was already shaping up.

Tom walked ahead with Claire, contriving first to brush against, then hold her hand. I could see which way this was going and why he was so pleased to see me. He needed someone to take Emma off his hands while he went to work on Claire. Emma knew it too. As we trudged behind them I glanced round at her and shrugged. She rolled her eyes in pantomime exasperation, then grinned, winked at me, and grabbed my hand. She had a firm grip.

Any kind of contact with any vaguely presentable girl was usually enough to give me an instant erection, and my much-teased, sadly underused appendage duly complied.

“Might as well” she said.

“Yeah.” If there was a catch in this, I had yet to notice it.

Our town bus station was an object lesson in concrete Brutalism, both in the literal sense of using only the raw, prefabricated material — ‘beton brut’ in French — and as a description of the way it had kicked any character or soul out of the old town centre. It was a vast, square, subterranean, grey-sided, dimly-lit cave whose floor was covered in spilt fuel and oil and stank permanently of exhaust fumes. It sat beneath what had been proudly publicised, when it opened a few years before, as the largest branch of a renowned multinational cut-price department store chain in Europe, and above it reared a faceless Soviet-style skyscraper housing the municipal council’s offices. Later, after I’d been to university and studied art and architecture, I rather pretentiously described it as looking like Le Corbusier’s take on the circles of Dante’s Inferno.

It held, however, distinct advantages for certain disenfranchised sectors of our town’s society. Vagrants with no roof over their heads could always find one there, since whatever other indignities it inflicted it never rained, and the constant tickover of diesel bus engines meant it was always warm, if almost certainly carcinogenic. And for young people still constrained to living under their parents’ roofs it was also a fairly safe place to engage in activities which might have got us arrested anywhere outside, including drinking and mutual groping, since everyone else using the place just wanted to get out of it as quickly as possible and nobody gave a damn what anyone else was up to.

We found two adjacent benches in a dark corner of this cavern. From a distance we could just hear the tuneless efforts of a local amateur covers band murdering The Beatles’ “Please Please Me.” Tom handed the two bottles of Strongbow round.

“If we run out, you’d better try the off-licence, Joe. You’re the tallest of all of us.”

Given the way he and Claire were wrapped round each other after we’d got through only half of the first bottle, I didn’t think that was likely.

“Drink is a great provoker of three things” Emma said. I recognised the quote from Shakespeare’s “Macbeth.”

“Nose-painting, sleep, and urine” I continued.

She grinned and took a slug of cider, handing me the bottle.

“Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes. It provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance” she said.

“I bloody hope not” I said. “Doesn’t seem to be doing it for those two.”

Tom had his hand very obviously up Claire’s skirt. Although she was between us and him, one of her hands appeared to be doing something rhythmical in the general region of his crotch.

I leaned forward and pressed my mouth onto Emma’s, which was already open. Her tongue slid over, under, and around mine, and I could taste her cider-flavoured saliva as I gripped her shoulder blades and pulled her in towards me. There was another scent about her which I couldn’t quite place but about which my still-stiffened cock had no doubt. I fancied I could feel her hardening nipples through the two thin layers of our T-shirts. She had her hands in the small of my back and began to scratch me lightly, rhythmically, through my clothing.

“That’s more like it” she said, when we eventually came up for air. “Look, I’m sure there are people who get off on the smell of buses and stale engine oil, but I’m not one of them. Let’s finish this booze, leave these two to it, and go and do something a bit more interesting. I know a place.”

“Er, OK.” Tom and Claire were now nearly horizontal on the bench. On one level I felt a bit jealous that Emma hadn’t been so forthcoming, but what she’d said seemed to be a promise of even better, whatever it was.

As if reading my mind she squeezed me between my legs as I took another swig of cider. I tried to dissociate my cock from the sensation of being rubbed by a real live girl, at the same time as I reached out and brushed her tits as she took the bottle from me. Her nipples were definitely now visible through her shirt. Tentatively, I slid one hand up her thigh toward the centre of her groin. It was Hot and, I fancied, humid, though denim’s a fairly thick material and I probably imagined that detail.

“Later” she said. “Drink up. Let’s go.”

Tom and Claire didn’t notice us leave. I thought we’d have to go back into the market square, where the covers band could now be heard doing violence to the Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction”, but Emma instead led me, holding my hand, to the escalator I’d forgotten which ran from the bus station to the doors of The Largest Cut-Price Department Store in Europe, and thence through the new model concrete shopping centre parallel to, but hidden from, the ancient cobbled market square.

We stopped every few yards to kiss and fondle each other in the doorways of closed units that made up the new Brutalist shopping space. I slid my fingers up the legs of her denim shorts and under the thin silk of her knickers as we kissed increasingly ferociously. Her wetness slid over my hand. My cock got harder and harder, demanding a relief that just wasn’t forthcoming.

“I really need to fuck you” I found myself gasping into Emma’s ear as she splayed herself against an advertising sign, thrusting three fingers up her tight wet cunt as I pulled her T-shirt up to suck on her hard little tits. She gasped at the intrusion, bit my ear in retaliation, but didn’t object.

“Soon!” she said. “Promise!”

We came to the edge of the shopping centre, a breezeblock cliff that ran along one side of a narrow road, for all the world like the Berlin Wall. At the other side crouched a terrace of low, boarded-up shops awaiting demolition, some of them showing ancient timber frames, their whitewashed facades glowing in the fading daylight like the ghosts they would shortly become.

“Here.”

Emma grabbed me by the hand and almost dragged me across the road and through a narrow passage between two of the dilapidated old buildings, into a tiny courtyard where weeds pushed up between flagstones.

“I used to work here” she said. “Part time job before it closed. It used to be a paper shop and tobacconist. God, I’m dying for a wee.”

There was a brick-built coal bunker in one corner of the yard. She headed for it and, to my utter aroused astonishment, stripped off her shorts, pulled her white knickers down around one ankle, and squatted with her back to the brick, leaning her weight on it so she could use both hands to pull open her cunt lips and begin pissing a torrential stream.

I didn’t even have time to think about what was appropriate behaviour in such circumstances. I wanted to watch her pissing, I wanted to drink her piss and lick her cunt as she did it, and I badly needed to cum. I threw myself to my knees in front of her, extending my right hand into the gush, and scooped a palmful of her Hot piss into my mouth.

“That looks so sexy” Emma said, moving one index finger up to where I knew her clitoris was, rubbing it vigorously and causing her stream to rise and jerk so that it splashed my face as I leaned forward to look more closely. I opened my mouth and moved in for the last spurts as she forced them out of the tiny urethra I could now make out between her clit and her glistening Vagina.

I’ve subsequently read somewhere that all the manufactured scents and perfumes women put on themselves to try and make them attractive to potential Sex partners would be useless compared to a dab behind the ears of a teenage girl’s urine. The hormones it contains, and their concentration in someone suddenly coming to sexual maturity, are specifically designed to make any interested party want to fuck her instantly and repeatedly. But I didn’t really need to read that, because I knew it instinctively in that instant. I’d always been secretly interested in watching girls pee, ever since my older cousin Fran showed me how she did it when we were both in primary school, and since I’d started manufacturing Masturbation fantasies one that kept recurring was tasting a girl’s piss. And here it was finally, in moonlit, sordid, backstreet reality. Emma’s piss tasted salty, bitter, Hot, like apples from the cider, everything infused with that dark spice I’d got first from kissing her and then, a hundred times stronger, from smelling her lubricated cunt as I pushed my hand into it. It was glorious.

Without noticing I was doing it, I’d unzipped my jeans. My cock stood up hard and almost numb with the pressure of being restrained so long. Emma reached out the hand with which she’d been massaging her clit and ran the tips of her fingers and nails over the slippery tip, licking them to taste my precum then grasping the shaft with the same firmness she’d used on my hand when she first took it, what seemed like a century earlier.

“Fuck my cunt with your fingers” she said.

“I want to put my cock in you” I heard myself pleading, almost hoarse with desire.

“I’m not on the Pill” she said, “And I don’t suppose you’ve got any rubbers on you. We don’t need any accidents. If you fingerfuck me and I wank you in the same rhythm it’ll be just like screwing. And I’ll get to see you cum and you might get to lick me out, if you’re good.”

I wasn’t going to argue with that. She’d already started pumping my cock with her strong little hand. I stroked her soft, damp pubic hair, and slid first my middle finger, then the index, into her. The piss that was still coating her labia was a less effective lubricant than the wetness I’d felt earlier, but I enjoyed its slight astringency as I pushed into her. I could smell the puddle of piss in which I realised I was kneeling, as it combined with the dark odour of cunt. I looked to one side at her crumpled underwear still loosely wrapped around her ankle. Emma wanked me hard, and the sight of the wet silk, the scent of her wetness, and the smoother feel of it beneath my fingers as it cut through the drying urine almost made me cum there and then.

I kissed Emma on the neck, as I couldn’t quite reach her mouth from my kneeling position and her half-squat. She moaned and used her Free hand to pull her T-shirt up above her tits, exposing the now fully erect nipples for me to suck and bite. She was sweating. Her perspiration smelt almost as good as her piss. It too was salty and spiced.

“I liked weeing on you” she said breathlessly into my ear. “When I worked in this shop I used to borrow some of the Sex magazines and read them on the toilet during my break. My favourite was one called ‘Forum’ that was all stories and no pictures. I loved the articles about peeing, fanny-licking and knicker-sniffing. That’s where I got the taste for it. I used to sit astride the toilet bowl and finger myself as I wee’d.”

“Jesus!” I said. “I’m going to shoot my load if you carry on like that.”

“Good.” She increased her pace on my cock, her nails digging into it. “The place was owned by this husband and Wife. She was all right but he was an old pervert. Old enough to be my dad, but always rubbing up against me and trying to touch my little tits. Then one day he caught me wanking on the toilet. The latch on the door was broken. I think he’d been watching me through the keyhole, ’cause when he barged in he already had his cock out, hard in his hand…”

“Oh my God, Emma!” I was trying not to envisage the scene, her with her knickers round one ankle, fingers in her little cunt, sparse young pubes glistening.

“He made me wank him like I’m doing you. He was calling me a dirty little slut and a filthy whore. Do you want to know what I did just before he came?”

“Emma, I’m going to… No. Yes. Tell me!”

The story was obviously exciting her. Her cunt was now starting to contract and waves of heat and wetness consumed my fingers. Her rhythm increased to frantic pace. I took the risk and thrust a third finger as deep as it would go into her, realising as it caught on her left hand that she was now frigging her clit at the same time as wanking me.

“I took the end of his prick in my mouth and sucked and bit it. He couldn’t help Cumming. I swallowed all his spunk and said ‘You’re right. I’m a filthy, dirty little slut, and I’m going to tell your Wife what I just did to you.”

We both came simultaneously. She gushed down my wrist and my cock exploded. I was hit on the chin by my first spurt, which also splashed across her nose and mouth. She let go of me and I half stood while still ejaculating, sending Hot trails of semen across her face and breasts, staining her shirt and dripping down over her navel into the pool of piss and her cum between her legs.

My head felt like it had exploded as well as my cock. I looked down at her as though from a mile away, conscious that I was grinning stupidly as she licked the cum from round her mouth, using those amazing fingers to wipe the rest off her nose and chin and lick them clean, before rubbing the great splashes on her neck and chest into her alert, erect breasts. She raised her head and licked the drip from my chin.

“Wow” I said, descending a little to earth. “That was… wow!”

Then: “That story you were telling just before… you know. You made that up, didn’t you?”

“Some of it” she said, smiling, a little sparkle of spunk still on her upper lip. “I did threaten to tell his Wife about his perviness, and he paid me forty quid to keep quiet, which is five times what I used to earn for the whole weekend. And hey — I am a dirty slut, aren’t I?”

“In the nicest possible way.”

“Good”.

She stood up suddenly, those lithe brown thighs slick with her own wetness. She pulled her T-shirt back down and surveyed the thick patches of my semen staining the front, before peeling it up above her head and off, throwing it towards the shorts she’d already discarded. She now stood completely naked, except for the sandals she’d been wearing throughout and the bedraggled silk knickers around one ankle. She kicked off the footwear and lifted the pants to her face, finding the gusset and sniffing deeply at it. Then she reached the garment toward her groin and rubbed its crotch over her own.