Further Adventures in Tourism

Part One is here.

Tourist takes me to a restaurant so yummy I take Lover there a week later. Mediterranean, a little pile of something to dip bread in that is neither hummus nor butter but tastes like the good parts of both. I have caprese salad with fresh, soft mozzarella that has a tang to it beyond balsamic, and a pasta dish with mushrooms and cream sauce. He has shrimp cakes, like crab cakes and with a spicy remoulade. I am reminded of my old dating policy: if you have bread and salad and dessert then you can take your entrée home and it’s two dinners, and you don’t have to make conversation for the second one.

I slip my foot from my shoe and press it into his lap, ignoring it while he gives my order to the waitress. I tease him under the table while we talk about my work and his work, my life and his life. He is interested, if not all that interesting. Midway through the meal, I excuse myself and visit the ladies, walking slowly and perhaps a little oddly while trying not to stagger out of my shoes. The ladies is out the back door, through a hallway, into another part of the building, enough distance to call Lover and check in with Tourist's name and my hotel information. I take off my panties, rub them on myself for scent, and bring them back to the table, balled in my hand. I had already planned to do this when Tourist asked me to – I’d rather just do it than be asked, it’s more fun to surprise and honestly, I need to be the one in control here.

Back in the car, he presses my panties to his face while I lean over, unzip his pants, pull out his cock and flick my tongue over and around, teasing as much as I can while avoiding drops of liquid. “Don’t come” I whisper in his ear, and with my hand wrapped tight around the shaft of his cock, he shakes again, his whole body gripped by spasms even without the telltale pulsing in the base of his penis.

We return to the hotel, I let him into my suite. In the living room, we sit in soft chairs facing each other, and again he licks my leg propped up on his shoulder, licks my shoes. It was a hot day, but not enough that I’m worried about sweat, and he removes my right shoe and stocking, and begins to suck my toes. This is always an odd feeling for me. I’m nervous about smell, it tickles rather than arousing, and I think it looks funny. But he’s paying, so I’m into it. In fact, the casual observer might note that apparently, nothing pleases me more than to recline in a chair with my legs in the air and watch my toes disappear between his lips. Fortunately, he does this with his eyes closed, because I’m not quite a good enough actress to contain my shock when he takes all five toes into his mouth. I’m not a huge-footed girl by any means, but they aren’t flitty pixie feet, either, and the sight of his mouth around a largish third of my foot is a little freaky. This goes on for nearly an hour, and I realize, what you’re buying is often my boredom. Yes, sometimes whoring is fun and sometimes it’s good dirty and sometimes it’s awful dirty, but mostly what it is is boring. And if we were to take a forty-hour workweek’s worth of intermittent boredom and cram it into one six-hour spell, this would be it. I bet my therapist feels this way.

I spend my time reminding myself of his fantasies in emails and phone calls and plot my next move. When, evidently, all possible enjoyment has been sucked from my toes, I remove my other stocking and tie his wrists to the table behind his chair. I pull out the new toys I’ve acquired, which I’m genuinely curious about, and spend the next hour masturbating in front of him, skirt hiked up, no panties, blouse open to my white lacy corselet. The toys are fun, but sadly, not good enough to make me actually come. I fake it two or three times, and it starts to become genuinely frustrating not to be able to come. On the up side, if we do fuck, at least I’ll want to.

I release his wrists and he kneels before my chair and licks my pussy. He’s decently good at it, at least it’s not irritating or painful, and remembering his fantasy to make a girl come over and over while eating her pussy, I do the best I can to make his dreams reality. Or at least, a purchased facsimile thereof.

More tomorrow…

Phone Sex

‘Cause I heard that you got you a lover,
And lovers you’ve got one or two.
But you can’t tell one from the other,
Now Mama, now you’re nothing to you
- Two Gallants

We’re in a hotel room. We’re always in a hotel room. (Except for that one time I violated the sanctity of my home in the guest room, but I was crazy, it was a one time thing, I swear.) Anyway. Hotel. Motel. Cheap but clean, grey-green stain-hiding carpet, blue bedspreads patterned with faux Wedgewood. On the edge of a failing city, now a grimy town – it’s hard to avoid them in the Midwest. Lover’s inside me, cowgirl. Yeah, yeah, cutting to the chase, but we’d be here all day if I rambled through the nuances of his hand at the nape of my hair, pulling my head back, his other hand on my breast while I watch him standing behind my shoulder in the mirror, etc, etc.

So Lover’s inside me. It’s been stop and start, talking and fucking, talking and fucking. The phone rings. Mine. His is off, his is always off when we’re here. Mine is never off. I will usually ignore the old-fashioned ring if there is a cock actually inside me, but otherwise I always look to see if it’s Husband, and if it is I pick up. Primary partner first, and if boyo doesn’t like it, they can move to less-complicated pastures, at least my cow pats are right there in the open, no squelchy surprises later on.

It’s not Husband.

I pick up anyway. Shift my weight, press my clit on Lover’s pubic bone, he’s mildly surprised. “Hello…” lower register fully engaged during Monday morning sex. It’s Actor, we’ve been flirting for years at a low simmer. I don’t know if I’ll ever fuck him, but he’s got pretty eyes and smooth strong fingers and a willpower about his person that I admire even while I deplore his ability to commit wholeheartedly to his girlfriend or wholeheartedly move on.

“You always sound so sexy in the mornings.” I thank him. He asks if I’m busy.

“I’m not busy, no, I’d love to talk.” Lover, still beneath and inside, is trying to decide whether or not to be offended. I lift a little, then slide his cock back in more deeply. He’s that wonderful mostly-hard that means I can go forever without getting sore.

“In fact, I was thinking about you,” I tell Actor. “Thinking about your cock sliding into me.” I lift and settle again, rising up until the tip is nearly falling out of me, then pressing back down slowly, tensing in my kneeling thighs.

“I like that thought.” Actor has himself in his hand, I hear his breathing. “I like thinking about you bent over in front of me…”

“I want to be there in front of you, heels high enough so I’m just the right height, feel you slide into me…”

Actor makes a noise in his throat. I hand Lover a toy, red and white and shaped a bit like a woman with arms raised overhead but mostly like a penis. The bumps of her breasts are great. “I want to feel your cock in my ass, I’m putting a toy in my ass right now…”

Lover presses it into me, not enough lubricant which is the way I like it, the friction of dry silicone catching at my skin inside on the way in, that bit of drag telling me how deep, exactly where, and later reminding where it’s been.

“God, I want to fuck your ass, I want to thrust into you and fuck you hard…”
“Yes, please fuck me hard, take my ass…”

I’m pushing back onto the toy, then forward again, one way relief, one way pain and the pleasure of my clit sliding on Lover’s skin, the stubble where he trims emphasizing the best bits. Several of us are on the edge.

Actor comes, heaving. I come, shrieking. Lover observes, earnestly, his eyes on me through the last gasping breath, his practiced hand on the toy, silent and unheard.

(painting by Rodger Casier)

Incall

I am on time. I am always on time. Most SP's are not. That’s probably why it’s important to me. Client greets me at his front door, in what passes for an upscale subdivision around here. I’m just pleased it’s close to the drycleaners, I’ve been meaning to pick up a dress I left last week. He asks if he can kiss me, offers me wine. We cuddle on the leather couch and discuss the vagaries of the “hobby” and the internet community that goes with it. His house looks divorced, it's under-furnished, the couch and entertainment center a little lost under high white ceilings. My money is on a credenza near the door. I leave it there for now.

He kisses me, his lips are thin and soft, his mouth is small for such a tall, heavy man. His tongue reaches into my mouth, barely past my own lips. He discovers my stockings, delighted, and takes off my patent spike-heeled boots (what I hate about winter: the choice between cold feet and practical shoes). Off comes his shirt, my shirt, his pants, there are mouths on nipples, he is carpeted in hair. I take down his boxers and discover the smallest penis I have ever seen. It has no neck, the head pertly balanced on his scrotum, testicles small enough so that now, in fact, I don’t recall what they looked like. I mentally roll up my sleeves and figure, well, I’ll do the best I can with what I have to work with.

For the record, it does grow, quite a bit, becoming the second or third smallest I’ve ever seen. He mentions that he has taken a pill (later, I realize he means Viagra - let’s just say this blog will not be quotable as testimonial for the Little Blue Miracle) and puts on a cock ring. We adjourn to the bedroom. Photos of his now-adult son are on every surface and wall. Heart-shaped picture frames. A ceramic one with "I Love My Daddy" in faux-childish crayon. A series depicting a cute third-grader becoming a thick-spectacled high-schooler with a mouth full of braces and one lazy eye.

More oral at the edge of the bed – he is quite taken with me putting his hand on the back of my head and encouraging him to fuck my mouth until I gag. He only just reaches my throat, but it does create some eye-watering and nose-running, giving me that attractive slut-who-wants-it look so beloved of low-budget porn.

He goes down on me. Gentle Readers, you already know my position on oral, so to speak. A little dramatic scene for your entertainment pleasure:

(Client licks)
Me: Ohhhhhh….. Let’s see, I’ll use his money on dinner at nice restaurant, good salad…
(Client sucks)
Me: Yeaaaahhhh…. Cashmere sweater, I would love to have another cashmere sweater, Nordstrom’s having a good sale…
(Client rubs his stubble on my tender parts)
Me: Easy, there! That’s a little intense. If only you all didn’t insist on me being on my back for this, perhaps we could find some common ground…

I suit his little fellow up and we try for Full Service, but neither cowgirl nor doggie is a success. He un-suits and brings out a Rabbit vibrator from under the sink.

“Let me just give that a bit of hot water to warm it up,” I say, not realizing until I get home, that hey, dingbat, anything headed for the Dark Night of the Vagina should probably be donning reflective gear. I do, however, wash that sucker with soap and the hottest water I can stand. The Rabbit is pretty impressive – I think I want one. It swivels like Big City Lover, and it’s a lot less emotionally traumatic.

A brief scientific digression:

Time it takes the average woman to achieve orgasm, according to Sexuality Education.com: 20 minutes.

Time it generally takes me to achieve orgasm…let me check…

…: 10 minutes.

Time it takes the average client to start urging me to come: 3 minutes.

So Client sends in the troops, which are nicely intense. I definitely want one. But despite the Rabbit feeling pretty darn good, and me being relatively close to the edge anyway, when Client starts urging me to come I end up faking it. I’m close enough to try to push for it, but it’s clear that it’s going to take at least another 5-7 minutes, having started pretty much from scratch on insertion, and what I need him to do is shut up and let me push into it. It’s less trouble – and less personal – to just toss one off.

Afterwards, we cuddle on the bed, and I give him a backrub. This is the best part. I feel close to him, he enjoys it (“You have strong hands”), I like him. He wants to see me again.

While we cuddle, I ask him if he likes off-color jokes, and tell him one:

"A man goes to a brothel where he has heard there is an amazing special. There is a lady there who will give him a blowjob while singing the National Anthem. He goes upstairs, goes into a dark room, and sure enough feels an amazing sensation and hears the Star-Spangled Banner. The bombs burst in air, he pays her and leaves. He goes back the next week, asks for the same thing, it’s incredible, rockets red glare. He goes back again, he has to see who this fantastic woman is. He flicks on the lights and sees the lady…washing her glass eye."


Client says, “Well, I won’t be telling that one to my son.”

Me: ??

Client: “He has a glass eye.”

Oops.