Part One is here.
Part Two is here.
Tourist, freed from his gentle bonds (just in case you need to know, even stockings loosely tied around wrists eventually start to hurt), goes down on me for...well...eternity. It’s actually about 45 minutes, during which I plan and furnish a Mandy Dream House in my head. Like a Barbie Dream House – cute well-endowed girl, no visible means of support, boyfriend who isn’t around a lot – only not pink and with a bathroom. Picturing a stone Japanese soaking tub on a slate floor with runnels between 12-inch square tiles so that the bath overflows on purpose and a separate shower with rain faucet and body spray jets makes me put a little more heart into my faux moans. I calculate: 4 hours down, only a few more to go... I don’t technically keep track of time, but he must depart by 8 as the business reception alibi-ing him will be done by then.
I’m still hoping that tease and denial will be enough, but we do end up adjourning to the bed. I spend a long time with oral, licking the head of his cock, sucking up and down the shaft, running my hands over his thighs, rubbing his cock on my breasts, every minute or so looking up and ordering him not to come. He has silent, shaking, come-less orgasms three or four times, each time is still not much less startling. This is a fetish slave – to what fetish, I don’t know yet – waiting to happen. It’s a damn shame this man is only at 50 discovering what he likes.
I suit him up and he asks for me on top. I’m able to come, which he likes, and it’s a midlevel orgasm, and I allow myself to be as vocally free as I can. Not the best ever, but again, Auntie Mame is in the house, apparently. I ask him to beg to come, and he does, very sweetly, so I let him know it’s ok to go ahead. Epilepsy’s got nothing on Tourist when he finally lets go. He nearly squirms out from under me while slamming his head repeatedly into the pillow.
There is a nap. Paid to sleep, that’s a new one…
There is one more go.
And then Tourist takes his leave. He ruefully refuses my panties, which might get him caught, and gives me a fat envelope. Over the course of 8 hours, this man has gone from “I have to be honest, when you told me your fee, I gasped” to “Is this enough?” From the hotel room window I watch him walk, still a little shaky, to his car, and then I count his money.
Not bad. A little boring, but not actively icky. Worth $2000? I’ll try to be...
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Part One is here.