In a week she's forgotten me, the price, and my expectations for service.
"First me then you."
"First, me. Then, you."
Now I feel truly naked, not just unclothed: Anus, perineum, balls, cock, belly, nipples, throat, mouth: All fully exposed, all open to view, while I wait for her choice, her descent: The where she will bend her head to and feast: Helpless, consenting.
She does bend her head: The tip of her tongue touches my anus: I roll up my pelvis yet more so she has the angle to probe, not just lick. And soon I am rocking, rocking, rocking my center as she laps my perineum, probes my ring, daintily slurping.
She stands, gets a washcloth and rubbing alchohol, cleans me, scrunching my dick: Rough, stinging, cool.
"I'm old. I have to wait for my second time."
"Don't say you are old. Together, we are young."
As I suck on her demure tits and stiffen her nipples, she gasps, yowls in the back of her throat, gives a quickly suppressed yelp, then the barest of moans, then smiles broadly: An ironic run-through of her repertoire? To show what might be done? The thought of her outcries—
How do I ask, "Will you make some noise?" Perhaps just in those words?
Head down, she braces herself: She's put her hair up in a butterfly clip, no doubt to protect it from fluids: Her black feathery crest bobs in time to my thrusts.
Grabbing, clutching, taking, cramming, banging: I power my way to a climax. Percussion with occasional notes from the winds.
Her living flesh is a wall to be smashed through, a demolished building under the wrecking ball, and then—
A mountain to climb, a non-technical peak, and then—
I clutch her cheeks and gasp in the thin air at the top: Stiffened, convulsed, clenched, frozen, unseeing: My come flung like a prayer flag against a bleached sky—
Frozen outside, inside I silently listen, straining as if to catch a secret sound no one could hear, ever, even were the latex not to prevent it: The spurt spatter splat splat splat hitting her inner flesh, then a faint splurch as jizz squeezes out, dripping down droplets pressured out by our jointure, jizz seeks its own level, down her lips, down her asscrack, down onto the sheets—
I decunt, rock back on my heels; she turns over to face me, gets up on her knees.
How gentle her touch was.
If honesty is important to you, then whoring is far preferable to dating. Of course, it's always possible that True Love may be encountered during dating, so truth will net out positive in one spectacular event. Your mileage may vary.
The variation between complete falsity and open honesty is less than in whoring than in dating, and the opportunity for conversation on a range of subjects is less, but on the whole and on the average, an hour with a whore produces fewer lies than an hour with a date.
This may be my own practice, of course: I don't ask whores to lie to me. And they repay the favor by not insulting my intelligence with words like "I've never felt like this before," which is, to say the least, statistically improbable.
I want sex, I offer money. She wants money, and supplies sex. What could be more honest, simpler, or (looking at history) more natural?
All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."