Paris Theater Slut Part 3
- 2 years ago
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Paris Theater Slut Part 1 free porn video
As told by a real hotwife:
I was beside myself, consumed by that now too familiar mixture of nerves, excitement, and even some feelings of shame. The latter being remnants of a strong Baptist upbringing.
We weren’t scheduled to fly into Portland for another month but I had already put an ad in craigslist and again on the Paris theater’s own website. The Paris was, if not the nastiest, then certainly one of this country’s top five. It consistently ranked close to the top of Dr Lizardo’s national adult theater rankings.
I had posted one picture of my slender, naked body, my long shapely legs and soft trimmed bush. This was before everyone began their obsession with a smooth labia and scrotum. One picture was all it took. I received hundreds of gorgeous cock pictures for my personal viewing pleasure and selection. I spent hours letting everyone who bothered to send me a photo know how much I appreciated them and exactly which day and time they could have me...all of me.
Finally, just when I didn’t think I could wait another day, when I knew my vibrator and my fantasies had lost their allure, we were ready to spend thousands of dollars on the chance to experience yet another of America’s great adult theaters. Oh sure, my husband made plans to visit mountains, waterfalls, hiking trails, vineyards of pinot g****s and all those wonderfully eclectic, Mcmenamins properties; but I knew the main draw was the infamous Paris theater.
I think it is fair to say that I have, as long as I can recall, been an equal opportunity cock sucker. I love them all...seems, even as a young christian, I have always had a secret fascination with the erect penis. Those of wide girth, the narrow curved one eyed snake, bulbous mushroom heads resting comfortably on long slender shafts, steel swords sheathed in uncircumcised foreskin, massive rods cantilevered off tight ballsacs, black as tar. I truly love them all. I was about to see every shape and color imaginable... soon.
We took a long and miserable flight from Tampa, Florida into the cute and clean Portland, Oregon airport. On wobbly legs I made my way from baggage claim to the rental car bus. Then we drove directly to one of those “Mcmenamin boys” unique hotels. We crossed over the burnside bridge on our way to the Crystal Palace hotel. Husband made a quick stop in front of the theater, which sat right next to the world famous Voodoo doughnut shop. I had read of their extreme popularity but didn’t expect the line to extend out the door and down the street ending directly in front of the Paris. I knew I was going to have to run that gauntlet of shame in order to enter those dark confines.
“Thought seeing this monument to sadistic venality might help get rid of your butterflies,” he smiled devilishly. He was beyond excited, like a little boy on Christmas eve.
“I’m fine,” I lied. I was a wreck, soooo needed a drink and a joint.
We proceeded to our hotel, just a few, sketchy, six or so blocks from the Paris theater. A walk I was not looking forward to, knowing parts of me would soon be exposed to the sultry summer heat. I had by now become accustomed to the mob mentality, the feeding frenzy, that never failed to materialize whenever I set foot in any adult theater but I could never quite compartmentalize those feelings that surfaced when I walked brazenly through the general public, in one of my slut outfits. That frightened me more than what might happen to me in shark infested waters.
We napped, ate and then slept soundly, as the rain soothed me toward a beautiful morning. The next day was clear, dappled by a cooling Pacific breeze. A good omen. I couldn’t eat much, visions of cock and cum were dancing about in my herb infused head. Husband always threw a few edibles and joints into his traveling humidor, mixed in between dark maduro Nicaraguan cigars, every time we traveled. He was convinced the cigars would throw off d**g dogs. Husband is a bit of a moron...and I told him so. But I wasn’t too concerned about flying into Portland, this place was known for being weird long before Hollyweird stole that moniker. I was fairly certain everyone in this town either regularly got shitfaced drunk... or stoned. Portland has more craft breweries per square mile than any city in the world. And they were one of the first to legalize the wacky weed.
After an afternoon of flirtatious barroom banter, toking behind alleyway dumpsters, and half a pot brownie, it was time to prepare myself as an offering to the gods. Back at our room I choose a loose fitting sheer chiffon top. My unbridled and real tits stood firm, nipples fully erect. My tits were real...real expensive.
I could see him giggling like a schoolgirl in the mirror. “I’m cold” I smiled back at him.
“Yea it’s freezing in here,” he laughed.
I finished off my outfit with white lacy panties, which I knew would make their way into some lucky guys pocket, white hot pants, and a black slut collar..studded of course. But hey, don’t leave that vision to the imagination. I have a picture of that outfit here in my profile.
The sun was setting over the worlds largest ocean as we made our way slowly down burnside avenue. My six inch heels made rocks out of calf muscles and my white hot pants made my long legs look like they went on forever. They ended at a cute little ass, half of which hung out the rear of my very short shorts. Tall buildings cast shadows; in between concrete boxes the sun’s rays demonstrated to the homeless, the line of fatties waiting for a box of doughnuts, and everyone who glanced in my direction, just how sheer my blouse really was. It felt like hordes of lusting men were stopping to stare. Husband was giggling with joy once again.
“You enjoying this?” I asked in a sarcastic tone.
“Oh fuck yea.” “Got a good feeling about this trip.” He had stopped once again, pretending to be interested in another store front but I knew what he was up to. Three young guys were elbowing each other and pointing in my direction. He wanted to give them a chance to enjoy the show...wanted this night to last.
I was beside myself, consumed by that now too familiar mixture of nerves, excitement, and even some feelings of shame. The latter being remnants of a strong Baptist upbringing.
We weren’t scheduled to fly into Portland for another month but I had already put an ad in craigslist and again on the Paris theater’s own website. The Paris was, if not the nastiest, then certainly one of this country’s top five. It consistently ranked close to the top of Dr Lizardo’s national adult theater rankings.
I had posted one picture of my slender, naked body, my long shapely legs and soft trimmed bush. This was before everyone began their obsession with a smooth labia and scrotum. One picture was all it took. I received hundreds of gorgeous cock pictures for my personal viewing pleasure and selection. I spent hours letting everyone who bothered to send me a photo know how much I appreciated them and exactly which day and time they could have me...all of me.
Finally, just when I didn’t think I could wait another day, when I knew my vibrator and my fantasies had lost their allure, we were ready to spend thousands of dollars on the chance to experience yet another of America’s great adult theaters. Oh sure, my husband made plans to visit mountains, waterfalls, hiking trails, vineyards of pinot g****s and all those wonderfully eclectic, Mcmenamins properties; but I knew the main draw was the infamous Paris theater.
I think it is fair to say that I have, as long as I can recall, been an equal opportunity cock sucker. I love them all...seems, even as a young christian, I have always had a secret fascination with the erect penis. Those of wide girth, the narrow curved one eyed snake, bulbous mushroom heads resting comfortably on long slender shafts, steel swords sheathed in uncircumcised foreskin, massive rods cantilevered off tight ballsacs, black as tar. I truly love them all. I was about to see every shape and color imaginable... soon.
We took a long and miserable flight from Tampa, Florida into the cute and clean Portland, Oregon airport. On wobbly legs I made my way from baggage claim to the rental car bus. Then we drove directly to one of those “Mcmenamin boys” unique hotels. We crossed over the burnside bridge on our way to the Crystal Palace hotel. Husband made a quick stop in front of the theater, which sat right next to the world famous Voodoo doughnut shop. I had read of their extreme popularity but didn’t expect the line to extend out the door and down the street ending directly in front of the Paris. I knew I was going to have to run that gauntlet of shame in order to enter those dark confines.
“Thought seeing this monument to sadistic venality might help get rid of your butterflies,” he smiled devilishly. He was beyond excited, like a little boy on Christmas eve.
“I’m fine,” I lied. I was a wreck, soooo needed a drink and a joint.
We proceeded to our hotel, just a few, sketchy, six or so blocks from the Paris theater. A walk I was not looking forward to, knowing parts of me would soon be exposed to the sultry summer heat. I had by now become accustomed to the mob mentality, the feeding frenzy, that never failed to materialize whenever I set foot in any adult theater but I could never quite compartmentalize those feelings that surfaced when I walked brazenly through the general public, in one of my slut outfits. That frightened me more than what might happen to me in shark infested waters.
We napped, ate and then slept soundly, as the rain soothed me toward a beautiful morning. The next day was clear, dappled by a cooling Pacific breeze. A good omen. I couldn’t eat much, visions of cock and cum were dancing about in my herb infused head. Husband always threw a few edibles and joints into his traveling humidor, mixed in between dark maduro Nicaraguan cigars, every time we traveled. He was convinced the cigars would throw off d**g dogs. Husband is a bit of a moron...and I told him so. But I wasn’t too concerned about flying into Portland, this place was known for being weird long before Hollyweird stole that moniker. I was fairly certain everyone in this town either regularly got shitfaced drunk... or stoned. Portland has more craft breweries per square mile than any city in the world. And they were one of the first to legalize the wacky weed.
After an afternoon of flirtatious barroom banter, toking behind alleyway dumpsters, and half a pot brownie, it was time to prepare myself as an offering to the gods. Back at our room I choose a loose fitting sheer chiffon top. My unbridled and real tits stood firm, nipples fully erect. My tits were real...real expensive.
I could see him giggling like a schoolgirl in the mirror. “I’m cold” I smiled back at him.
“Yea it’s freezing in here,” he laughed.
I finished off my outfit with white lacy panties, which I knew would make their way into some lucky guys pocket, white hot pants, and a black slut collar..studded of course. But hey, don’t leave that vision to the imagination. I have a picture of that outfit here in my profile.
The sun was setting over the worlds largest ocean as we made our way slowly down burnside avenue. My six inch heels made rocks out of calf muscles and my white hot pants made my long legs look like they went on forever. They ended at a cute little ass, half of which hung out the rear of my very short shorts. Tall buildings cast shadows; in between concrete boxes the sun’s rays demonstrated to the homeless, the line of fatties waiting for a box of doughnuts, and everyone who glanced in my direction, just how sheer my blouse really was. It felt like hordes of lusting men were stopping to stare. Husband was giggling with joy once again.
“You enjoying this?” I asked in a sarcastic tone.
“Oh fuck yea.” “Got a good feeling about this trip.” He had stopped once again, pretending to be interested in another store front but I knew what he was up to. Three young guys were elbowing each other and pointing in my direction. He wanted to give them a chance to enjoy the show...wanted this night to last.
Cayleigh
- 09.11.2021
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Paris Theater Slut part 2
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Paris Theater Slut Part 4 Finale
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