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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.

Mickey Busts a Nut

Sex work is a funny business and, as with most businesses, it has its own rules.  The rules vary from practitioner to practitioner and they may be more inflexible with some girls than with others.  I’ve already mentioned a few no-nos that are pretty much absolutes with me.  Here are a few of the more subtle preferences I have.  Keep them under your hat.  I’d lose my professional standing if the word got out that I’m not always entirely enamored with my clientele.

A big turnoff for me is lousy personal hygiene.  Not only from the point of view of body odor but lots of men are totally unaware of the terrifying effect the sight of poorly maintained fingernails has on the feminine psyche.  See, you can use the pad of your middle finger to gently stroke my clit and that’s a good thing.  But if you shove a ragged fingernail up my happy place it’s gonna cause me a lot of anguish, even if I don’t let it show.  Please come to see me nicely trimmed and filed.  It’ll go a long ways towards improving the experience for everyone involved.

I also have a personal issue with over-sized gentlemen who believe their girth is much admired by members of the fairer sex.  Now I don’t care if you’re just plain fat, muscle-bound from too many workouts at the gym or bulked up on steroids.  If you’re gonna climb on top of me you’d best be light on your feet, so to speak.  Otherwise it’s female superior all the way.  Let me explain why.

Early in my career I had a client named Mickey who was above average in every department imaginable, including net worth, ego and body mass.  Mickey probably hadn’t actually seen his cock in years but he wanted me to have the full benefit of his magic muscle up close and personal.  He insisted on climbing aboard and humping away until I came or he came or the cows came home.  I was young and foolish and didn’t know how to say no back then so, against my better judgment, I let him.

It wasn’t all that unpleasant at first.  Mickey propped himself up on his elbows and the urgent thrusts and unbridled parries were even somewhat pleasurable.  But somewhere along the line Mickey threw too much grunt into the occasion and passed the fuck out!  I’ve seen pictures of Sumo wrestlers thrown to the mat and pinned beneath their corpulent opponents. I’ve seen beached whales left to simmer in the midday sun.  I’ve never in my widest dreams imagined I would someday find myself suffocating in mounds of inert flesh.  It was horrid.  It was scary.  I really didn’t want to go out this way.  Smothered by a ton of blubber.

Mickey finally regained consciousness and oozed off my quivering frame.  He apologized profusely and tipped me really well but I still hold the image in my haunted brain of me expiring in a sea of flesh and making front page headlines the next day in the Orange County Register.  “Local Hooker Slipped a Massive Mickey.”  My goodness, what would Momma think?

Menage a trois? Moi?

Not long ago I received a reply to a posting indicating an interest in getting together for an hour of fun and frolic.  There were three noteworthy aspects to this communication.  The first was that the respondent was a woman.  Not that I have anything against plying my trade with members of my own gender, but it is certainly the exception and not the rule.  Second, the lady in question said she wished to bring her husband along.  Again, I have nothing against a group roll in the hay but it is certainly not the norm.  And finally she said that, although her hubby would be attending the festivities, he wouldn’t be indulging in any of the activities.  And, by the way, if I could supply a length of rope and a straight-backed wooden chair that would be a big plus.

I responded by saying his presence, whether or not he played with either of us, would constitute a special circumstance and as such would cost extra.  She said she understood and had no problem paying extra but added that under no conditions would he be allowed to touch, taste or tamper with the goods.  You can imagine I was intrigued by this request.  I figured he’d gotten into hot water at home and this was her form of punishment for his offensive behavior.  Hey, I’m neither a paragon of virtue nor a particularly judgmental person.  Whatever folks do to get through the day is okay by me as long as it doesn’t ruffle my feathers and it contributes to my college fund.

They appeared on the threshold of my hotel room precisely on time and she proceeded to strip the miscreant nude and rope him firmly to the chair, hands behind his back and his poor excuse for a cock dangling over the edge of the seat.  He had such a hang dog look I almost began to feel sorry for him but then I noticed she had already disrobed and was sitting buck naked on the bed with a big grin on her face and a twinkle in her eye.  I quickly slipped out of my own clothes and joined her in what turned out to be one of the more memorable slap and tickle sessions I have enjoyed in years and the dejected creature tied to the chair was soon forgotten.  It was only later that I glanced up from my grazing duties at the Y and realized he was getting off on our Sapphic behavior.  His bedraggled cock had sprung to life and was waving happily in my direction.  His body suddenly tensed against the chafing rope and with an abrupt quiver he shot his wad a good three feet across the room.  With that my female companion lifted my face from her abundant fur, kissed me firmly on the mouth and thanked me for a job well done.

They’ve never called again since that lovely forty-five minute bizarre encounter.  I often find myself reflecting on that session and hoping they get back in touch.  Hell, I’d even be willing to forgo the special circumstances fee.  My college fund is full to overflowing anyhow.

No Deposit, No Return

Nothing is less dignified than the portrait of a bank vice president, his pants and shirt muddled in a heap on the thickly-carpeted floor of an upscale hotel room, mentally preparing himself for a close encounter with the rented girl of his dreams when suddenly his manhood takes it into its little head to nod off.  Now I admit I’m no Marilyn Monroe, but I have had my share of compliments on my feminine assets.  So for this minor functionary of the finance industry to fiercely lay the blame squarely on my naked shoulders for his lack of firm resolve?  On the other hand I learned a long time ago, back when I was waiting tables at the Oar and Spinnaker, that the customer is always right.

Here are three scenarios that won’t help this situation.  Pointing to the unfortunate flag hoist at half-staff and snickering.  Getting up off the bed and slipping back into your blouse, all the while humming the love theme from Dr. Zhivago.  And third, pointedly glancing at the clock on the bedroom wall and hollering “Next!”

Here’s the dilemma in a nutshell.  The banker has gotten himself caught up in a fantasy and he’s suddenly confronted with reality.  The obvious solution is to gently coax Mr. Moneybags back into his dream world without bruising his delicate male ego.  Fortunately, I am the go-to-girl for this solution.  I grew up fifteen blocks south of a major overpriced family theme park, fantasy capital of the world.  I can weave dreams that’ll make your head spin.  I was happily deflowered by a lanky boy wearing a character costume in the faux forest glade on the port side of a boat inside a pirate-themed water ride.  To this day I get hot when I hear the roar of cannon fire.  In the bargain, I got a season pass to the park.

I learned a lot from that brief encounter, and that information forms the core of my personal Rules of Engagement.

  • If you want to play with me, you wear a raincoat.  I don’t know where that little rascal has been and I don’t want to share in the perils of his misadventures.
  • Cleanliness is next to Godliness.  The lanky boy perspired a lot inside that suit and I don’t find the taste of sweat to be even remotely erotic.
  • The cash is in the coffer before the clothes come off.  The lanky boy came through in the end but he was young and swell and grateful as Hell.  And even then he took a lot of persuading.

So what about my righteously-indignant Banker Boy, daring me to fix his problem?  Without going into a lot of salacious detail, let me point out that praise trumps scolding, a gentle touch in the right spot helps to firm the flaccid and there are techniques your mother never thought to teach you when she was showing you how to bake bread.  Needless to say, Mr. Banker left with a smile on his face, I scored full marks on the SAT (Sexual Agility Testimonial) the banker would hopefully post on his bad boy review page and the world was a happier place.  And they say I don’t earn my pay.  Speaking of which my ten o’clock just texted me that he’s downstairs waiting.  More later.  Ciao.

Welcome!

Thanks for joining me on this journey of words…my travels through (and travails of) titillation, as it were.  Hopefully you’ll be entertained, amused, inspired…and maybe we’ll both learn something along the way.  Here’s hoping.