Let’s not bother too much with the reasons – there are too many. But in a nutshell:
- I wanted more sex, and without the usual preliminaries of meeting up for a drink etc. beforehand. Because of my intensely demanding professional life (as a SAHM – lol), I only have time for either drinks, or sex – not both. And much as I love drinking… well, really!
- I like to take orders (I should probably add “in the bedroom”… all right, here goes) in the bedroom.
- I wanted to fulfil a fetish for Sex with Strangers. Sounds like an easy enough one to fulfil, especially living in Paris, but it’s actually very difficult when one is painfully shy, like me.
- I wanted to become better at sex. I got this idea from a male escort who said that, as he was also a long-time client, he could offer tips on What Men Want. So I considered hiring him, but then realised that perhaps I could pick up more tips by becoming an escort myself.
- I wanted to recoup my expenses. I’d been spending a fortune on sex – hotel rooms, train tickets, extravagant gifts, lingerie, sex toys… not to mention a staggering telephone bill every month. And all on a couple of useless, good-for-nothing, totally ungrateful lovers who took it all for granted, calling me up at odd hours asking me to come for them, demanding photos of me with my fingers in my pussy, making me trawl adult dating websites for hours searching for threesome partners, and fucking me in the ass without lube until I screamed with pain (and pleasure… but still).
So, basically, I wanted to find some disposable, fly-by-night sex partners who would mean nothing to me and for whom I would never do anything crazy, ever. No more endless sexting all through the night, day-use hotels, Eurostar tickets, photos of me making myself come… EVER AGAIN.
In my dreams, I was set up in a seedy hotel room, utterly degraded, forced to see client after client, the waste paper basket slowly filling with used condoms. Strangely, the reality was quite different. For one thing, I can only really leave the house for a couple of hours a day, thanks to the aforementioned responsibilities of my chosen profession. And for another… well, that’s it, really.
So I set up my first “booking”, with a polite, respectful fellow who invited me over to his house for a couple of hours one afternoon. As it happened, a couple of nights before this booking was to take place, I was desperately searching online for what exactly constitutes a “sexy secretary” outfit, when I stumbled upon a reference to him on saafe, a forum for sex workers, where he was branded an “anal rapist” and basically described as a weird, creepy guy with a habit of forcing himself upon innocent unsuspecting escorts and leaving whip marks all over their bodies. Although this does sound right up my alley, I had already been feeling quite nervous about my very first booking, so reading this just struck me with terror. However, I had already confirmed the booking so I decided to go through with it and just prepare myself for a bit of anal rape.
But, as luck would have it, I received a message from someone else that night: something to the effect of, “Hi, I see you’re new around here, fancy meeting up for a drink and then an hour or so of fun?” I consulted his feedback and saw a series of comments: “hi hun thanks for popping my cherry”, “hey baby thanks for being my 1st client” and so on. And I realised that this guy was no Anal Rapist – no. This guy was a Cherry Popper. I wrote back at once and we arranged to meet the very next day, as soon as I got into London.
Sitting across the table at the bar from him that evening, watching him eat pistachios (“You really like pistachios!” “Oh, I’m just being ecological. Don’t want to let them go to waste.”), I was struck by the peculiar knowledge that, a mere thirty minutes later, I was going to have sex with him – I was definitely going to have sex with him. Normally, sitting across the table from a stranger, I’m thinking, “Will I? Won’t I? Oh, maybe I could. But I probably won’t!” And knowing that in fact, I never do. But here, I couldn’t believe it. It was definitely going to happen, whether I wanted to or not…!!!!
What probably made it a little less weird was the fact that Cherry Popper was totally, unequivocally My Type. He was as much My Type as anyone could be – there wasn’t a single thing about him that wasn’t exactly what I want in a man. Well, in retrospect, he was a little boring that evening, rambling on about his experiences as a beignet-vendor in a small seaside town in France, back when he was 18, and about being propositioned by a gay truck-driver. But anyway, we headed off eventually to the easyJet love hotel. I felt a growing sense of trepidation as I climbed the stairs, but at the same time, I couldn’t wait to jump into bed with him. But then: “Wait!” he said. “Hand me your purse.” I handed it over wordlessly. He opened it and stuffed a wad of notes inside. “There,” he winked. “It’s like it never happened. Now get on the bed on all fours and spread your legs.”
I did as I was told.
“Now close your eyes,” he said, and when I did, he put his cock in my mouth. I was really grateful to him for doing that, because that first exposure to a new cock is always a stupidly terrifying moment for me. But this way I didn’t even see it – I just started sucking. We did all kinds of things that night – mostly quite normal things, but he also rimmed me a little, which no-one had ever done before. The moment he first penetrated me – from behind, on all fours – was really special, because it was at that moment that, I felt, IT WAS REALLY HAPPENING. I was having sex with a stranger!!!!
At one point he took a bathroom break, and as he did, he remarked, “You just let me know whenever you want me to piss on you, all right?”
“What?!” I asked.
“Well, you had it in your ‘likes’ list,” he explained. All right, so I did. But the vision I’d had in my mind was of being dragged into the bathroom by my hair, screaming in protest, and forced to perform this vile, degrading act for the gratification of some ruthless misogynist. Not to have a pleasant chat about it beforehand, and certainly not to have to be the one to suggest it!! So Cherry Popper let me down a little bit there. But he more than made up for it when he started slapping me…
I was riding him, my bare tits bouncing over his chest, and all of a sudden he slapped me hard across the face. What a turn-on!! I felt myself instantly becoming even wetter, so much so that I was afraid he might slip out of me. Then he asked whether I was really lactating. I’d put that on my “likes” list, too. He didn’t seem to believe it, so I squeezed one of my nipples and a jet of milk sprang forth. He stared at me, his eyes wide with amazement.
“Oh God, I’m sorry!” I cried quickly, embarrassed.
“Oh no – don’t be!” he insisted. “This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen!!”
After that, he had me spurt him with a continuous stream of milk from my breasts while I rode his cock until he came. The easyJet hotel was stifling in the month of July, and both our bodies were slippery with sweat and milk. Even his hair was soaking wet. It was perfect.
“Is sex always this good for you?” he asked me. “Because if so, no wonder you love it!”
I was so flattered! But I’m sure they all say that to everyone.
He asked me if I wanted to take a shower, but I declined. I wanted to go home with the scent of his sweat still clinging to my skin.
“You’re a good kisser too,” he remarked.
“Oh no – it’s all you!” I protested modestly. “You have such sexy lips…”
His face darkened.
“That’s exactly what the truck-driver told me,” he said.