‎Yesterday’s post reminded me of one of my most cherished memories, which I risk forgetting if I don’t record it. So here it is.

‎Cherry Popper had asked me to find another man for me to fellate while he watched. (“Are you mad? No-one will agree to that!” “You’re saying no-one will agree to a free blow-job?! You’re the one who’s mad!”) I had found just the man for it, in fact, when, inexplicably, Cherry Popper decided that it was “too risky less controllable”. Aha!

‎Instead, he had another proposition, he said.

‎”We go to hotel, I warm you up, then we choose suitable candidate from aw that I ravish while you’re tied up. I might finish you off after if you’re good.”

‎”I’m wet already. What time?”

‎”You’re always wet! 10:30?”

‎Then he explained that he was going to be in meetings all day, so I would have to find and book both the hotel and the other girl! And on the ridiculously low budget of £100 for the hotel room and £100 for half an hour with the other girl. Instantly, I turned on my data and began to rack up a tremendous telephone bill comparing hotel rates and searching wildly through hundreds of AW escorts and typing out desperate come-on lines with trembling thumbs. But no-one wrote back! Not one girl! I am useless at seducing women. (Or is even paid sex this hard to obtain?? No wonder everyone on OK Cupid seems semi-deranged with despair…)

‎Shame-faced, I had to admit my failure, but CP was undeterred.

‎”In meetings now. I have a stunning chinese girl who is free but wants 160!”

‎”Damn… for half an hour?? I need to adjust my rates… :D”

‎”I’ll see if I can reduce it. Bring a scarf.”

‎Well! That night as I walked to the hotel from the station was one of the most beautiful nights ever – a perfect summer evening, the air just slightly cool the way it can be after the sun sets on a warm day. I was wearing my favourite yellow lace dress and high-heeled boots and I knew I was looking good. Well, I had to be – I was meeting a stunning Chinese beauty, after all. I checked into the hotel and moped around for ages, wishing I had something to drink. I was so nervous, my mouth was dry! But not the rest of me… hehe.

‎Finally CP arrived and kissed me in his lecherous, predatory manner, swooping over me like a bird of prey. And then he said, “no more of that! don’t want you to get too worked up” and he took the scarf I’d brought and tied me to the chair.

‎”You’ll love this girl,” he promised me. “She’s really, really beautiful.” And then he saw the little glancing look of jealousy cross my face and he laughed and said, “But not more beautiful than you – it’s not like that!”

‎Then he admitted to me that he’d fucked her once before, which was how he’d been able to convince her to reduce her rate for him. Well, which girl wouldn’t reduce her rate for Cherry Popper?! To be fair, her parents were apparently quite wealthy, and had set her up in her own Central London apartment – while she whored herself out on the sly! – so perhaps, like me, she could afford to indulge charming cheapskates like CP. He warned me not to admit that he was paying me too, though, as he had led her to believe I was his girlfriend. I beamed with pleasure. Can’t remember the last time I’ve been someone’s girlfriend!!

‎There was a timid knock on the door – she had arrived! She tiptoed in, greeting CP rather awkwardly, in that excessively formal, Asian way – for she was really Chinese, from Hong Kong – and then paused in amazement at the sight of me, tied to a chair!

‎”Is she all right there??” she asked CP anxiously.

‎”Yes, yes – she’s fine,” he assured her, kissing her in that fine way he has, and leading her to the bed, where he asked her to undress. She pulled off her dress – a very plain woollen dress – which hid beneath it the most incredibly beautiful body, lithe and lissom, with small, but perfectly formed breasts and a long, smooth stomach with a tiny little navel, her pale alabaster skin gleaming in the darkly-lit room; she had no jewellery, no make-up or any other adornment, other than a lovely, black and white lace bra and matching panties, which she rather nervously removed, all the time glancing over toward me and asking CP if I was all right.

‎”Yes, yes – just ignore her!” he said. “Act like she doesn’t exist!”‎

‎They kissed and he fondled her a little, allowing me to taste her wetness on his fingers, and then he began to fuck her, holding her ankles up on either side of his head. At one point, he turned and tenderly kissed one of her slender feet, and she flashed him an almost-shy smile. Then he began to pound her quite savagely – I was shocked! For she was so small and delicate! The whole bed shook with the intensity of his lust.

‎I was jealous, yes. But, strangely, not really… almost not at all. I wasn’t that aroused, either. I felt like a fly on the wall… almost like I really did not exist. But this happens to me sometimes – quite often, actually – when I’m living out my dreams. I just can’t believe it’s really happening, until it’s over.

‎Anyway, finally CP untied me and allowed me to taste the Chinese beauty’s tiny, tight pussy. She moaned as I licked and sucked her clitoris, but I felt almost afraid of hurting her. There was no rush of wetness or trembling. I knew she hadn’t come, nor was she close, for her excitement seemed static, not building. CP went down on her then, while I stroked her breasts and kissed her fine, taut nipples, and she seemed to appreciate that more, perhaps. Then he fucked us in turn, only when it was her turn, she stopped him, delicately pointing out, in her broken English, that he should change condoms. He seemed doubtful, but I confirmed that she was correct. It was, however, quite late – midnight, perhaps – so he asked her if she wanted to leave, so she could take the tube home, and she agreed. Before she left, she asked if she could touch my hair.

“Of course,” said CP. “Touch any part of her you like.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, admiringly.

“It’s just like yours,” I protested.

‎After she left, I rode CP for a long while, until we were both drenched in sweat, and then, I believe, he came in my mouth. As we got cleaned up and ready to go, we wondered what wild and crazy thing we could do next, to keep it always different. (“I know! Let’s speak nothing but French! Toi tu t’appeleras Camille.” “Et toi… Thierry!“) And I thanked him again and again for the marvellous experience we’d had. It was too late for me to get the tube, which, I pointed out, was very unfair, as he had paid me less than the other girl, and now I would have the added expense of a taxi!

‎”The least you can do is help me get one,” I demanded.

‎”Of course,” he said. “Did you think I was just going to leave you to find your own way home?”

‎There was, unfortunately, a taxi right outside the hotel, so we said good-bye. As I climbed in, he rummaged around in his jacket and pulled out a £10 note, pressing it into my hand.

‎”All I have left in my pocket,” he said, apologetically. “Good night, Camille.”



2 thoughts on “You Name the Drama, and I’ll Play the Part

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