Damn! The Portuguese porter who has a thing for me was hanging around in the driveway. I hoped he wouldn’t see me step into the Anal Rapist’s car. (I remember once when he saw me on my way to meet Cherry Popper at the pub; I was wearing my best dress, he said I looked “divine”. But never mind about that…)
“Quick kiss, darling,” insisted the Anal Rapist, leaning over me in the car.
“Oh no, but… the porter!” I protested in vain.
“Here’s your birthday present,” he said, handing me a small bag.
“Aw, Anal Rapist, you shouldn’t have!” I cried, opening it with avaricious glee. Inside I discovered a deep red Chanel lipstick, a small handmade metal brooch, and a bar of chili chocolate. I gazed at him with gratitude, and lust. I had forgotten how attractive I find him, and never more so than behind the wheel of his car. I felt a little bit ashamed at having been not as keen as I should have been to see him.
The explanation, I think, is that everyone comes across somewhat differently online than in real life, but the difference is more marked in some than in others. My messages from the Anal Rapist always seem to be peppered with absurd typos, wildly erratic strings of exclamation points and a total disregard for punctuation. Now, I’m no pedant, but it gives him this air of jittery instability which is kind of alarming, really. Whereas, in real life, he’s nothing like that at all, of course.
“You were really quiet yesterday,” he remarked. “I know you were just busy with the babies. But every time that happens, I wonder if that’s it – if you’ve just disappeared from my life, as suddenly as you entered it.”
“Oh, but… I would never do that,” I reassured him, somewhat uncertainly, as, in fact, that sounds like exactly the kind of thing I would do.
He drove on to the car park, swerving dangerously down the road as he glanced over at me. The car park was unexpectedly filled with brightly-lit tour buses, the drivers lingering around both inside and out of them. But we found a semi-secluded spot to park, and he reached over to me again and kissed me with passion, forcing his tongue deep into my mouth, his teeth on my lips.
“Recline your seat,” he told me, and then, when I fumbled with the knob, he did it for me, reaching for my pussy with his other hand. I opened my legs a little for him as he began to play with my clitoris. He pulled down my top to expose my left breast, and tugged at the nipple. I cried out with excitement. He continued to stroke my clitoris, pushing his tongue into my mouth again and holding it there. I sighed and trembled.
“I’m going to ask you to suck my cock now,” he said, unzipping his trousers. I leaned over to him, taking him into my mouth greedily while he juggled with the camcorder, eventually tossing it aside and focusing instead on forcing my head as far down onto his cock as it would go. I struggled not to gag, closing my eyes and holding my breath as I felt him hit the back of my throat. He began to use me as a sort of masturbation device, twisting my hair around in his hand and using it to pump my head up and down on his cock while I choked and gasped, spit leaking out of my mouth and tears running down my face. Finally he jammed himself as deep into my mouth as possible and came straight into my throat. When he let go, my hair was a mess, my face covered in spit, tears and runny make-up. How the hell was I going to go home like this?
“Would you like something to read?” he asked me.
“Something to – what??”
“I bought you a couple of F. Scott Fitzgeralds. They’re in the back seat. Help yourself.”
I picked one, and then we set off home.
“You shouldn’t be on that site,” he told me, darkly.
“It’s not like I have the time to actually – ” I began.
“I want you all to myself.”
I fell silent, embarrassed, as we turned into my driveway.
“Some day,” he went on. “I’ll tell you what all I’ve gotten up to since I met you. Actually, I’ll just tell you now: nothing. Not a single thing.”
“But – but – ” I spluttered, in disbelief. After all, he’s the guy with 145 ratings on AdultWork, the guy who’s been 13th stepping at AA meetings all over London, the guy whose settee has seen more action than a maison close. So how can this be?
“You’re worth the wait,” he said simply, putting on the brakes, and turning to me with a smile. “Good night, angel.”