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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.

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