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The Ear is an Organ Too

For some strange reason I woke up this morning mulling over the relationship between words and deeds. Specifically, how dirty talk enhances the sex act and how virtually every man I’ve ever been to bed with loves to hear me tell him in vulgar detail what I want him to do to me and how I want it done. The syntax of the modest speech isn’t particularly important and the physical activities involved needn’t even be plausible. Here’s a sterling example of what I mean.

Let’s say I’m sprawled naked on the bed with a similarly clad gentleman and I roll over and whisper urgently in his ear, “I want you to fuck me deep in my pussy with your fucking cock!”

Now let’s parse that sentence. At first glance it seems woefully redundant. Yet it never fails to inflame the ardor of the cock-owner to whom it is directed in a delightfully visible way. Now let’s examine another sentence which conveys the same intent but with more precision.

“I want you to insert your penis into my vagina for the purpose of intercourse.”

This sentence is grammatically superior in every way, and yet is dramatically less effective even given the nude/nude context of the delivery or the urgency of the whisper. Unless, of course, you’re trolling for belly laughs.

Talking dirty had the same effect on my first boss, Rapid Roger the CPA. As a prelude to our Wednesday evening oral adventures I would crawl across the floor of Roger’s office to where Roger sat in his dark brown leather chair, his pants tugged down to his ankles, and I would growl, “I want you to cum in my fucking mouth.” I swear there were times I almost didn’t get there before Roger was cocked and ready to fire. Of course that was precisely the point. Roger’s flabby magnetism to the contrary, I wanted the ordeal over with as quickly as possible, despite the time and a half he was paying me for working late.

By the way, Roger, if you’re reading these words, I don’t really mean it. After all…we might chance to meet someday in a dimly-lighted hotel room, arranged by my booking agent, Sally, and I wouldn’t want you to cut and run before leaving a generous tip. In my book you were the very picture of manly studliness. I don’t know why in the world the other girls in the office called you “Rapid” Roger. To my way of thinking you never came quickly enough.

Now I need some coffee. After all this cock talk I think I’ll take it with extra cream. More later.

Time Off for Bad Behavior

This line of work suits me well and I am well suited to this line of work but honestly, there are times when I would just as soon take the day off.  It isn’t that I tire of the million and one quirks that go along with the game.  It’s not that I grow weary of my horizontal profession.  God knows the job pays better than average but still I sometimes need a day away from the slaps and tickles that make my boys happy in the bedroom.

A few weeks back I attended a family function.  It wasn’t a formal holiday gathering such as one would find at Thanksgiving.  My mother had hired four contractors to lay a patio behind the farmhouse she and Dad lived in, before he mysteriously disappeared for parts unknown, and she invited me and my sister and her brood to come by and watch.  This was on a weekend in mid-July and we all showed up around noon for a late breakfast.  The contractors were already hard at work when we arrived.

My sister, Gail, and her two boys traipsed into the house while her husband, Freddy, fixed a world-weary eye on my matchless ass and muttered a few well-chosen words of off-color hilarity which I pointedly ignored.  I’ve never trusted Freddy as far as I could toss him and he tips the scale around two-twenty, most of which is lard.  Besides, I had my eye fixed on the youngest of the male quartet of workers who was at the moment in the process of getting all sweaty and dirty, the way I prefer my men.  His shirt was off and his sculpted pectorals glistened in the noonday sun.  God, he was a hunk!

I shooed Freddy into the house and approached the crew.  The young man I so admired noticed me watching and he gave me a welcoming grin.

“God, lady, it’s hot,” he said mischievously.  “Do you think I could prevail upon your good nature to fetch me a glass of cold water?”

“There’s a faucet in that tool shed out back,” I replied, nodding my head at a shack to the rear of the property.  “It draws from a well that has the coldest, freshest water you could imagine.  You’d have to bring your own cup, though.”

He got permission from the boss and the two of us ambled off to the shed.  Of course he was flirting with me, saying the regular lines and eye fucking me so I knew I had this one in the bag.  I led him inside and pointed to the mouth of a faucet that had a drip of water about to fall on the dirt floor.  He leaned down to turn on the faucet and I sidled over to a wooden stool next to a welding bench and bent over so my ass cheeks were playing peek a boo.

“Damn, girl, don’t do that,” he said hoarsely and I replied, “Why not, don’t you want some?”

He unzipped his fly and walked over as I slipped out of my shorts.  His dick was already rock hard so he thrust it deep into my pussy. I bent over and let him have his way with me. I love it when a man takes over. He flipped me around and propped me up on the welding bench and fucked me hard and good.  I took every inch.   He didn’t last long.  He blew his load all over my chest. We were both totally spent. We got our clothes together and trucked back up to the yard laughing and trying to get our composure right so no one would know that he had me for lunch.

Making others happy in ones chosen profession is all good but honestly, sometimes a girl just wants to be fucked.  Ciao!

You Can Call Me Sweetheart…For an Hour

I’m up for almost any sort of activity.  If you want me to pee on your toes or nibble a nipple, just let me know.  Check that.  For the peeing thing I need to know ahead of time so I can top off my plumbing and bring along a set of rubber sheets.  I’ve got toys we can play with and outfits I can dress up in.  I’ve even got a Big Boy diaper for you if you’re so inclined.  You can call me Mommy or Aunt Angie, or even Cousin Slim, but don’t expect me to give you a standing ovation for outstanding performance at the end of the hour.  I’ve been doing this a long time and I truly love sex, but honestly, what gets me most excited is a thick sheaf of twenties splayed out on my dresser.

For my part, I know how to ring your chimes, even if the clapper is rusty and the bell is out of whack through years of neglect.  I had a client named Dennis who really needed to let it all hang out.  He worked at a boring job that didn’t allow him much room for creativity.  As a result Dennis was wholly unimaginative, especially when it came to sex.  He informed me at the outset of our first session that he preferred missionary style, male superior, lights out.  All the while Dennis was talking, he was staring at my bald pussy that peeked from beneath a tight black bustier I often put on for first dates. When I meet a client for the first time, the visual message from this little number usually breaks the ice, and besides, I have a world class pussy…or so I’ve been told.

While Dennis was in the midst of giving me detailed instructions, I took his hand and led him across the room and pushed him gently down on the bed.  I tugged an armchair up close to the bed and positioned myself, legs wide open so Dennis had a clear view of the promised land.  He clapped his mouth shut and gazed at my pussy so longingly I swear he’d never seen one up close before.  I slowly spread the lips of my luscious labia and began to stroke my glistening, pink clitoris.  Moaning at this point is usually a real turn on and for Dennis it did the trick.  He tugged down his necktie (yes, he had on a suit and tie!) and began unbuttoning his white dress shirt.  I guided his hand to my shaved pussy and let him take over the stroking while I took over the task of freeing him from his formal attire.  When at last I tugged off his Jockey briefs I discovered his cock was stiff and warm and refreshingly thick.  So what’s a girl to do?  I taught him how to use it.

After several session of training Dennis became a lot more creative and much less uptight.  I like to think I played some small part in his transformation.  I admit I enjoy my work.  I’m a real people pleaser at heart.  Sometimes you just have to get their attention first.  Ciao!

The Southern Route to Redemption

One of the first lessons I learned in this business is that a good provider doesn’t judge the sexual peccadillos of a paying customer. I’m hardly free from own my little quirks so why should I look down my nose, so to speak, at the kinks of my clientele? Especially if my nose happens to be in their business, as it so often is. Of course I draw the line at life-threatening interplay but I don’t think that’s a judgment call. I think that’s common sense.

Early on in my career I used the services of an agency to set appointments, secure rooms and generally manage my time in harness. For a paltry forty percent they made sure I was regularly booked, knew where the key to the rented room du jour was stashed and didn’t interfere with the commercial goals of the other five girls in their stable. In the bargain they tried to match my unique skills with the ardent desires of the male members on their established client list. To the best of my knowledge they didn’t have any female clients on the list.

The first time I met Arnie was on an outcall. The agency’s driver took me to Arnie’s house in the suburbs. The driver wore two hats. He was the chauffeur and also the muscle in case the client decided to get rough (and “rough” wasn’t in the contract) with the girl. Arnie didn’t sound like the type to cause trouble. I rang the bell and heard a deep male voice from within holler, “It’s open.”

I wandered into a back bedroom where the lights were on and there perched a slender, elderly gentleman on the edge of his bed, naked as a newborn, smoking a joint and grinning mischievously at me. Strewn across the foot of the bed were a variety of strap-on dildoes. Arnie pointed to a huge, black number and said impishly, “Meet John Henry, my dear. He’s my favorite.”

I was somewhat taken aback. The agency hadn’t mentioned the use of toys and certainly not toys the size and girth of Arnie’s pride and joy.

“Jesus Christ, Arnie,” I sputtered. “You’re not gonna stuff that puppy in me.”

“Oh, it’s not for you, baby,” her replied, turning over on his stomach. “”Strap it on and let’s get this party started.”

I got naked and puzzled out how the straps worked. The designer of this dastardly device must have had me in mind when he made it because the straps slipped perfectly under my pussy and buckled in the back. Where they crossed my clit there was a gentle but not altogether unpleasant pressure that I liked a lot. I lubed up the instrument of torture and got Arnie ready for the big plunge. I’m not sure to this day how we fit that horse cock inside his back door but I still recall the intense delight I felt with every thrust. Arnie obviously got off on the experience as well be cause before long he gave a big grunt and came all over the freshly-ironed sheets.

“Your turn, sweetie,” he sniggered, to which I responded playfully, “I don’t fucking think so, but thanks for asking.”

I cleaned him up, rinsed off the strap-on, collected the hour’s agreed-upon contribution and my driver and I sped off into the night. Wow. It just goes to prove you can’t judge a book by its cover. For an old, skinny guy, Arnie sure could handle a lot of heft.