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A Third Visit free porn video
Angela’s eldest, Rebecca, was being unbelievably selfish. It was one thing not to put the washing away, quite another not to take half an hour to visit the young man hospitalised while saving her life.
“Yesterday you walked round to see your friends, then the rest of the day you used your hands to text them. You’ve just finished eating your lunch at home. How much does a little kindness take from that busy schedule?”
Rebecca shrugged.
“That’s it? You can’t even muster a couple of words to explain?”
“You know…”
Angela waited a moment to see if what she knew would be explained to her. Her daughter turned back to her computer. She looked at her husband. He seemed to find the newspaper fascinating. Her other daughter was at least meeting a commitment, even if just her soccer team.
“Okay, I will be taking the car for an hour or two, or maybe longer. I will not be answering my phone. The mother taxi service is on strike today.”
Only her husband managed a “bye”.
Driving calmed her down. In fairness her husband and daughters had visited. They had been an embarrassment of stuttering conversation interspersed with silences. Her husband had never been one for small talk. She was more surprised her daughters were reluctant. Angela had wondered if Simon made the same suggestion to her daughters he had made to her. When she asked Rebecca, more or less directly, she received a reassuringly contemptuous laugh. Apparently, the question was typical of parents and teachers, along with an irrational interest in the need for clean underwear in case of accidents. It proved Angela did not understand what it was to be young.
“When I left Uni I was in the weird position of having money.” She told Simon.
His left arm was still in plaster but they had pared it back so he could move it at the shoulder. Unfortunately his stronger arm, the one he had led with when he instinctively tried to protect himself from the bus, was still in a full cast
“That Summer I did that most Kiwi of life steps, went on my Overseas Experience. On the family holiday before I left I reflected on how one disastrous love affair had derailed my life as a student. I had clung on to the academics, got a good degree, but mostly hid away. My birthday adventure with Rolfe and Andrew aside, I had not really done anything. Not just sex. I was twenty three and had not smoked an i*****l d**g, stayed up all night with friends drunkenly solving the world’s problems, or even couch surfed. My OE would be my version of a “year of saying yes”. I would meet interesting people, take d**gs and, I hoped, sleep with more inappropriate people.
I started out in London, sharing a dingy flat with half a dozen New Zealanders and Australians. My chance to get a real experience came when Veronica Turner-Dell walked into the office where I was temping. It was a small publishing company that specialised in technical books and as boring as that sounds. VTD, “STD with added vigour”, was medium height but in every other way had nothing middling about her. She had the cutglass accent and confident stride that is the specialty of the English upper class. She was also beautiful. Not nice looking, or even attractive, but beautiful, in that way that confuses the most heterosexual of women and renders most men incoherent. She did not enter a room, she inhaled it.
“What are you fools doing?” she asked. She did not shout but there was something about her voice that turned brick walls to paper. Everyone, the boss included, was in reception in a second.
“You begged me to forage in the wasteland for your Ponzi scheme of a company. What help do I get? A dumb tart of such ineptitude her cerebellum is one neuron short of brain death. What are you doing about it?”
There was a pause, a moment when the fear was so palpable you would not be surprised if someone wet themselves. I was far too low to be the object of this wrath. The boss, a man who had told me when I started he would call me Sandra because he did not want to waste time learning the names of temps, approached her so stooped he could have been going over the top in a first world war charge into machine guns.
VTD looked at him as if becoming a cockroach was beyond his talents.
“I do not want your excuses, I want someone, and I want them now.”
He stopped mid-grovel, his mouth moving wordlessly. It was in the long pause that followed that some part of my brain reminded me why I was on my OE. VTD was obnoxious, domineering, unfriendly, and frightening. She was undoubtedly interesting.
“I’ll go,” I said to a room that echoed like an empty cathedral.
It turned out the wasteland was Newcastle, a city in the north east of England famous for being ugly and having women who wear wispy, thigh length dresses and skimpy high heels when they go out. The city is prettier than they say, but the girls really do dress like that, even during the eight months a year when freezing Arctic winds blow in from the North Sea.
I won’t bore you with a description of the job. Suffice to say the company set up in Newcastle to get millions of pounds “Jobs for Locals” funding. The three of us based in Newcastle, me, VTD and Andrej, the gay Polish hairdresser who was also on the company books, lived in a tax scam of a five story Georgian townhouse in the city centre. One ground floor room with an empty desk and a neglected filing cabinet was allotted in case someone visited. We lived in the four remaining floors.
They paid me well because I was the only person who actually work for the company so I was at my desk from eight in the morning to eight at night, five to six days a week. For the first few weeks I worked longer, desperate to impress VTD. On the weekends both she and Andrej disappeared. I was exhausted in any case, having long sleeps in the huge, comfortable bed I had in my room and barely hearing anything.
I did find a few differences with my previous life. Andrej and VTD had a relaxed attitude to clothes. So relaxed they had usually slipped off their bodies when I saw either them or their friends. She had a habit of giving my butt a pat as she passed that would have seen her sacked in any other workplace.
One day she and a male stranger, also naked, walked towards me in the corridor while I was wearing pyjamas. I was expecting the butt pat after she passed. Instead she pushed me against the wall, her breasts touching mine and her hand inside my pyjama bottoms.
“Don’t worry Kiwi, you are here to work.”
She kissed me gently on the lips and walked on with her friend. From anyone else I would have stormed out. Instead I stayed with my back against the wall, so turned on I felt a swelling dampness on my pyjamas. It did not take long for my fingers to finish the job that night.
On my third weekend I took the metro to Wallsend to see the remnant of Hadrian’s wall. In truth there it’s just a reconstruction and there is nothing else to see in Wallsend. I was back in the early evening. I was so surprised to hear a noise from the lounge I thought it might be a burglar. The noises were not those made by someone sneaking around. The door to the lounge was wide open. Five to ten people were so entangled it was hard to work out how many exactly. Andrej was leaning over the sofa enjoying a vigorous buggering. Most bizarrely, the local couple in their late fifties who cleaned the house were working around them. I snuck away.
The house was empty on the weekends until one Friday when I was sitting eating hot chips and one of the heart-attack-in-a-bag battered sausages New castle specialises in. I heard people coming into the house and going to the lounge. I was sat at the kitchen table, alone, with a glass of the $500 a bottle champagne they had delivered like milk. I was sick of sneaking around. I filled and quickly downed another glass, walked to the lounge door and walked in without pausing. I wantd to ensure my Dutch courage did not have time to fade.
A naked VTD was smoking dope with Andrej and two other couples. All six were mostly naked. One couple, a few years younger than me were sitting close together on a sofa, passing a spliff between them. Both were wearing underwear. Her hand was gripping his very tightly and her legs were drawn up like she was shielding herself. The other couple, slightly older than me, were on the floor between the young couple and VTD, attending to some white powder on Andrej’s cock.
I learned later VTD had a thing about couples, or as she put it “there’s nothing like going pussy to mouth with a girl while getting a rogering from her boyfriend”. She preferred them younger than her with the boy masculine and the girl thin and wispy with long hair. She particularly liked what she called virginal couples, by which she meant nervous but wanting to be tempted.
She looked up at me as I entered. She pointed to the sofa with the nervous couple.
“Join in if you want. Or not if you’d rather.”
I sat down next to the couple and took a puff from the spliff.
The next morning I woke up while receiving a pleasant tonguing. The night had got hazy but I remembered VTD said I worked so hard I could have one of the young couple. Being old fashioned I had chosen the boy, who turned out to be an energetic if unimaginative fuck. I was surprised at the quality of his tongue work and pulled the bedding back to complement him. It was the young girl.
She smiled up at me.
“I can taste Gary’s cum on you. It’s funny being mixed with your stuff.”
“Where is he?”
“VTD said she wanted more cock so got us to swap while you were asleep. I wondered what licking a hairy pussy was like. Hope you don’t mind?”
I shook my head. She slid up my body until we were face to face, her on top. Our breasts were touching. I was taller so I could feel her shaved pussy just below my navel. She gave a little wriggle, obviously enjoying how our breasts touched. Four nipples hardened a little.
“It’s always Gary in charge when it’s the two of us. I think I might like taking over sometimes. I’d like to have a go giving a fisting. Are you on?”
This, you might remember, was my year of always saying yes.
Angela smiled at Simon. She was sat back from the bed, her hands by her side. Simon had no need of her help to get excited.
“Boyfriends often ask ‘what’s your number?’ Before I went to Newcastle it was five, including Rolfe and Andrew. I left England less than two years later with it at somewhere in three figures. Probably less than two hundred, but the faces blurred a bit, and some of those nights…”
Now her smile was more for herself than Simon. Those nights, indeed.
“However the number of people is not what made my time so interesting.”
A few weeks later VTD came up to me looking a little sad, almost contrite. This was so unlike her I wondered if there had been a death in the family.
“OK Kiwi I have a favour to ask of you. A big favour. For the other business we do.”
I had long ago worked out VTD and Andrej were running multiple layers of scams. The printing company was scammimg the regional development fund for millions that were meant to be employ locals, the house and all our costs were scamming the tax office, the publishing company was being scammed on everything. The only work they did was on some other businesses.
“We’ve been let down. Without a life vest in a boiling vat of shit let down. The skank will never work for us again and I’ll be hiring a knee capper, but that won’t solve the problem now.”
There was always something about her talk of kneecapping that worried me …
“Which is why we need the favour. We supply what you might call tailored adult entertainment. Nothing as seedy as strippers. It’s for people who spend 100k on a weekend shopping trip to New York and sometimes want a different kind of fun. Do you understand?”
“You make it sound scary.”
“It can be,” she laughed. “There’s one guy who… but anyway the favour is not for him. It’s more close and personal. You’ve taken well to the social side here, I thought you’d want something new.”
While I was not the least surprised VTD ran an escort agency, even in a year of saying yes, I was not sure. I had once been tempted, in that “I wonder if I could do that?” sort of way, when I met a professional girlfriend. She lived off rich men in return for indulging them, but she was serially monogamous and the relationships were real enough in their way. As she put it, “how do you think Melania met her Donald?”
“So you want me to be a whore for you?”
“More acting out a fantasy than whoring.” She could see I was unconvinced. “It’s one day, noon to ten-ish. You’d normally get five grand, but since this is a favour I’ll make it eight. That’s more than everyone except me gets.”
That made me pause.
“Why do you do it?” I asked.
She gave me a condescending smile, “Even in your sheep farm you must have heard of Nell Gwynne and Madame Pompadour? Courtesan is as old as courting, probably older. I’m a traditionalist at heart. In any case, in twenty years those beautiful tits of yours will be sagging and you’ll be hoping for a friendly pat on the arse from your husband’s friends. Take what you can when they’re begging.”
I thought for moment. “I’ll do it for twenty, not a cent less.”
The man sat opposite me in a cafe. VTD had warned me he was in his late seventies but that meant no more than “old”. In front of me, now, was a man who walked steadily enough, but had that thinness that makes an old person look weak rather than lean. He was smartly dressed in a blazer, slacks and shoes that probably cost a few thousand pounds.
“My dear, what is a charming young woman like you doing without a companion?”
“Well, I am waiting for someone, there is no need for you to bother yourself”
“Now that can not be right.”
VTD told me to wear plain white knickers, Marks and Spencer functional, and fit everything else to the same style. Like I was going to a social in the kind of office where you only got one glass of wine and it is scheduled to end at 5.30. She also told me to play up my inner sheep farmer, which for her meant repressed and submissive. Always give in, but never without a fight. I told her Dad was an accountant in Auckland and Mum ran the council’s IT section. I had been to a sheep farm once, when I was six. She just shrugged.
He ignored my protest and sat down
“My name is John Howard and I insist on buying you a cup of tea. It is a crime for a man of means to sit alone while a lady is nearby and bored.”
“But really, that is so forward.”
“But of course it is. Without men like me being forward, ladies like you would be lonesome forever.”
I covered my face, pretending to blush, “Well, if it is only one cup of tea. Then you must leave immediately.”
And so on. He was polite to the point of oleaginous. I acceded to the point of being a door mat. Eventually, via him escorting me on my supposed errand to buy a dress, that he paid for, we entered his suite. He told me to sit down a moment while he ordered a “little snifter”.
It was a beautiful room with a picture window overlooking the Tyne. You could see the reconstructed Norman castle on the Newcastle side and the converted factory that was now the Baltic Centre for Contemporary art on the Gateshead side. It was bathed in light from behind the hotel so the city looked elegant, industrial decline as a picturesque vista. I heard him come back and turned around. He was completely naked, a glass of sherry in each hand.
I am one of those who think a good sized cock is nice enough, but is only part of the package. Something you hope the right man has, but not what makes him the right man. I say this because if John Howard had been the right man, his micro-cock might have been a problem. It was not small, it was a nipple-like blob of skin just visible in its tuft of hair.
I must have been staring because he said, “Now don’t you worry, it won’t hurt when it goes in.”
I recovered enough to go back into character. It was the only way to stop myself laughing.
“Now get your clothes on this instant! What kind of girl do you think I am?”
I strode forward, but he grabbed my arm as I passed. I gave a shake I thought was gentle but still managed to knock his hand off.
“Now, now missy, this is where it gets really fun.”
He grabbed my breast and pushed me. I decided the only way to make this realistic was to fall on the floor. I pulled my skirt up as I went down hoping it looked like it was riding. He used a chair to kneel beside me. As he apologised for being so rough his hand went up my skirt. My struggle was gentler this time just in case I was too strong for him. He thrust his groin into my face.
I tried to harden the nipple cock but nothing discernible happened.
“I can see you need some educating.” He told me and pulled at my knickers.” Let’s get this where we both have fun…”
The next night VTD and Andrej were in hysterics as I described what happened.
Andrej asked, “Did he get it in?”
I shrugged, “Who knows? There was a sticky mess needed cleaning up so something was working.”
VTD stroked my hair. “He thanked us, told us anyone who gives a bj that badly has to be a real virgin.”
I snorted, “He has to have a cock to get a bj.”
She looked more serious, “Giving head is your easiest way to please them. It works even if they’re queer doesn't Andre?j?”
Andrej interjected, “A day with a bad bj is better than any day without.”
VTD pretend swatted him. “What do you know Oscar Wank.”
She turned to me.
“Was it worth it for twenty?”
I shrugged. They both knew that meant yes.
“Then we really will have to do something about your technique.”
I shrugged bad temperedly. “I’ve had no complaints.”
She and Andrej were sitting naked on one sofa, me clothed on another. VTD switched her position so her arm was free to pick up Andrej’s cock. She stroked it, then bent down and moved her lips slowly down to its end and back a few times. She looked over at me.
“Here’s a good one to start on.”
In Angela's memory, VTD had been many things, mostly bad, but definitely worldly and in her deeply cynical way, wise beyond anything Angela could understand. What was funny is that now Angela would think her brash and forceful, the rest she would dismiss as a pretence of youth.
Angela looked at where Simon’s erection had created a small peak in the sheets. She leaned over Simon’s bed, pulled the cover back and let her lips tickle his foreskin. He groaned.
“No noise Simon.”
He put his arm in his mouth.
He was very hard. It would not take long. She slid her mouth along until her lips were at the bottom of the shaft. She felt the end at the back of her throat. Within three three movements he gave another groan and her mouth filled with unpleasant liquid. She sat up and replaced the cover. She looked straight in Simon’s eye a moment and then swallowed.
She delicately dabbed her lips.
“Some day you might want to see my house in Karori. It’s a three storey, five bedroom house on a three quarter acre flat section with mature gardens. I bought it when I was under thirty.”
She stood up.
“Do you think I got the hang of giving head in the end?”
“Yesterday you walked round to see your friends, then the rest of the day you used your hands to text them. You’ve just finished eating your lunch at home. How much does a little kindness take from that busy schedule?”
Rebecca shrugged.
“That’s it? You can’t even muster a couple of words to explain?”
“You know…”
Angela waited a moment to see if what she knew would be explained to her. Her daughter turned back to her computer. She looked at her husband. He seemed to find the newspaper fascinating. Her other daughter was at least meeting a commitment, even if just her soccer team.
“Okay, I will be taking the car for an hour or two, or maybe longer. I will not be answering my phone. The mother taxi service is on strike today.”
Only her husband managed a “bye”.
Driving calmed her down. In fairness her husband and daughters had visited. They had been an embarrassment of stuttering conversation interspersed with silences. Her husband had never been one for small talk. She was more surprised her daughters were reluctant. Angela had wondered if Simon made the same suggestion to her daughters he had made to her. When she asked Rebecca, more or less directly, she received a reassuringly contemptuous laugh. Apparently, the question was typical of parents and teachers, along with an irrational interest in the need for clean underwear in case of accidents. It proved Angela did not understand what it was to be young.
“When I left Uni I was in the weird position of having money.” She told Simon.
His left arm was still in plaster but they had pared it back so he could move it at the shoulder. Unfortunately his stronger arm, the one he had led with when he instinctively tried to protect himself from the bus, was still in a full cast
“That Summer I did that most Kiwi of life steps, went on my Overseas Experience. On the family holiday before I left I reflected on how one disastrous love affair had derailed my life as a student. I had clung on to the academics, got a good degree, but mostly hid away. My birthday adventure with Rolfe and Andrew aside, I had not really done anything. Not just sex. I was twenty three and had not smoked an i*****l d**g, stayed up all night with friends drunkenly solving the world’s problems, or even couch surfed. My OE would be my version of a “year of saying yes”. I would meet interesting people, take d**gs and, I hoped, sleep with more inappropriate people.
I started out in London, sharing a dingy flat with half a dozen New Zealanders and Australians. My chance to get a real experience came when Veronica Turner-Dell walked into the office where I was temping. It was a small publishing company that specialised in technical books and as boring as that sounds. VTD, “STD with added vigour”, was medium height but in every other way had nothing middling about her. She had the cutglass accent and confident stride that is the specialty of the English upper class. She was also beautiful. Not nice looking, or even attractive, but beautiful, in that way that confuses the most heterosexual of women and renders most men incoherent. She did not enter a room, she inhaled it.
“What are you fools doing?” she asked. She did not shout but there was something about her voice that turned brick walls to paper. Everyone, the boss included, was in reception in a second.
“You begged me to forage in the wasteland for your Ponzi scheme of a company. What help do I get? A dumb tart of such ineptitude her cerebellum is one neuron short of brain death. What are you doing about it?”
There was a pause, a moment when the fear was so palpable you would not be surprised if someone wet themselves. I was far too low to be the object of this wrath. The boss, a man who had told me when I started he would call me Sandra because he did not want to waste time learning the names of temps, approached her so stooped he could have been going over the top in a first world war charge into machine guns.
VTD looked at him as if becoming a cockroach was beyond his talents.
“I do not want your excuses, I want someone, and I want them now.”
He stopped mid-grovel, his mouth moving wordlessly. It was in the long pause that followed that some part of my brain reminded me why I was on my OE. VTD was obnoxious, domineering, unfriendly, and frightening. She was undoubtedly interesting.
“I’ll go,” I said to a room that echoed like an empty cathedral.
It turned out the wasteland was Newcastle, a city in the north east of England famous for being ugly and having women who wear wispy, thigh length dresses and skimpy high heels when they go out. The city is prettier than they say, but the girls really do dress like that, even during the eight months a year when freezing Arctic winds blow in from the North Sea.
I won’t bore you with a description of the job. Suffice to say the company set up in Newcastle to get millions of pounds “Jobs for Locals” funding. The three of us based in Newcastle, me, VTD and Andrej, the gay Polish hairdresser who was also on the company books, lived in a tax scam of a five story Georgian townhouse in the city centre. One ground floor room with an empty desk and a neglected filing cabinet was allotted in case someone visited. We lived in the four remaining floors.
They paid me well because I was the only person who actually work for the company so I was at my desk from eight in the morning to eight at night, five to six days a week. For the first few weeks I worked longer, desperate to impress VTD. On the weekends both she and Andrej disappeared. I was exhausted in any case, having long sleeps in the huge, comfortable bed I had in my room and barely hearing anything.
I did find a few differences with my previous life. Andrej and VTD had a relaxed attitude to clothes. So relaxed they had usually slipped off their bodies when I saw either them or their friends. She had a habit of giving my butt a pat as she passed that would have seen her sacked in any other workplace.
One day she and a male stranger, also naked, walked towards me in the corridor while I was wearing pyjamas. I was expecting the butt pat after she passed. Instead she pushed me against the wall, her breasts touching mine and her hand inside my pyjama bottoms.
“Don’t worry Kiwi, you are here to work.”
She kissed me gently on the lips and walked on with her friend. From anyone else I would have stormed out. Instead I stayed with my back against the wall, so turned on I felt a swelling dampness on my pyjamas. It did not take long for my fingers to finish the job that night.
On my third weekend I took the metro to Wallsend to see the remnant of Hadrian’s wall. In truth there it’s just a reconstruction and there is nothing else to see in Wallsend. I was back in the early evening. I was so surprised to hear a noise from the lounge I thought it might be a burglar. The noises were not those made by someone sneaking around. The door to the lounge was wide open. Five to ten people were so entangled it was hard to work out how many exactly. Andrej was leaning over the sofa enjoying a vigorous buggering. Most bizarrely, the local couple in their late fifties who cleaned the house were working around them. I snuck away.
The house was empty on the weekends until one Friday when I was sitting eating hot chips and one of the heart-attack-in-a-bag battered sausages New castle specialises in. I heard people coming into the house and going to the lounge. I was sat at the kitchen table, alone, with a glass of the $500 a bottle champagne they had delivered like milk. I was sick of sneaking around. I filled and quickly downed another glass, walked to the lounge door and walked in without pausing. I wantd to ensure my Dutch courage did not have time to fade.
A naked VTD was smoking dope with Andrej and two other couples. All six were mostly naked. One couple, a few years younger than me were sitting close together on a sofa, passing a spliff between them. Both were wearing underwear. Her hand was gripping his very tightly and her legs were drawn up like she was shielding herself. The other couple, slightly older than me, were on the floor between the young couple and VTD, attending to some white powder on Andrej’s cock.
I learned later VTD had a thing about couples, or as she put it “there’s nothing like going pussy to mouth with a girl while getting a rogering from her boyfriend”. She preferred them younger than her with the boy masculine and the girl thin and wispy with long hair. She particularly liked what she called virginal couples, by which she meant nervous but wanting to be tempted.
She looked up at me as I entered. She pointed to the sofa with the nervous couple.
“Join in if you want. Or not if you’d rather.”
I sat down next to the couple and took a puff from the spliff.
The next morning I woke up while receiving a pleasant tonguing. The night had got hazy but I remembered VTD said I worked so hard I could have one of the young couple. Being old fashioned I had chosen the boy, who turned out to be an energetic if unimaginative fuck. I was surprised at the quality of his tongue work and pulled the bedding back to complement him. It was the young girl.
She smiled up at me.
“I can taste Gary’s cum on you. It’s funny being mixed with your stuff.”
“Where is he?”
“VTD said she wanted more cock so got us to swap while you were asleep. I wondered what licking a hairy pussy was like. Hope you don’t mind?”
I shook my head. She slid up my body until we were face to face, her on top. Our breasts were touching. I was taller so I could feel her shaved pussy just below my navel. She gave a little wriggle, obviously enjoying how our breasts touched. Four nipples hardened a little.
“It’s always Gary in charge when it’s the two of us. I think I might like taking over sometimes. I’d like to have a go giving a fisting. Are you on?”
This, you might remember, was my year of always saying yes.
Angela smiled at Simon. She was sat back from the bed, her hands by her side. Simon had no need of her help to get excited.
“Boyfriends often ask ‘what’s your number?’ Before I went to Newcastle it was five, including Rolfe and Andrew. I left England less than two years later with it at somewhere in three figures. Probably less than two hundred, but the faces blurred a bit, and some of those nights…”
Now her smile was more for herself than Simon. Those nights, indeed.
“However the number of people is not what made my time so interesting.”
A few weeks later VTD came up to me looking a little sad, almost contrite. This was so unlike her I wondered if there had been a death in the family.
“OK Kiwi I have a favour to ask of you. A big favour. For the other business we do.”
I had long ago worked out VTD and Andrej were running multiple layers of scams. The printing company was scammimg the regional development fund for millions that were meant to be employ locals, the house and all our costs were scamming the tax office, the publishing company was being scammed on everything. The only work they did was on some other businesses.
“We’ve been let down. Without a life vest in a boiling vat of shit let down. The skank will never work for us again and I’ll be hiring a knee capper, but that won’t solve the problem now.”
There was always something about her talk of kneecapping that worried me …
“Which is why we need the favour. We supply what you might call tailored adult entertainment. Nothing as seedy as strippers. It’s for people who spend 100k on a weekend shopping trip to New York and sometimes want a different kind of fun. Do you understand?”
“You make it sound scary.”
“It can be,” she laughed. “There’s one guy who… but anyway the favour is not for him. It’s more close and personal. You’ve taken well to the social side here, I thought you’d want something new.”
While I was not the least surprised VTD ran an escort agency, even in a year of saying yes, I was not sure. I had once been tempted, in that “I wonder if I could do that?” sort of way, when I met a professional girlfriend. She lived off rich men in return for indulging them, but she was serially monogamous and the relationships were real enough in their way. As she put it, “how do you think Melania met her Donald?”
“So you want me to be a whore for you?”
“More acting out a fantasy than whoring.” She could see I was unconvinced. “It’s one day, noon to ten-ish. You’d normally get five grand, but since this is a favour I’ll make it eight. That’s more than everyone except me gets.”
That made me pause.
“Why do you do it?” I asked.
She gave me a condescending smile, “Even in your sheep farm you must have heard of Nell Gwynne and Madame Pompadour? Courtesan is as old as courting, probably older. I’m a traditionalist at heart. In any case, in twenty years those beautiful tits of yours will be sagging and you’ll be hoping for a friendly pat on the arse from your husband’s friends. Take what you can when they’re begging.”
I thought for moment. “I’ll do it for twenty, not a cent less.”
The man sat opposite me in a cafe. VTD had warned me he was in his late seventies but that meant no more than “old”. In front of me, now, was a man who walked steadily enough, but had that thinness that makes an old person look weak rather than lean. He was smartly dressed in a blazer, slacks and shoes that probably cost a few thousand pounds.
“My dear, what is a charming young woman like you doing without a companion?”
“Well, I am waiting for someone, there is no need for you to bother yourself”
“Now that can not be right.”
VTD told me to wear plain white knickers, Marks and Spencer functional, and fit everything else to the same style. Like I was going to a social in the kind of office where you only got one glass of wine and it is scheduled to end at 5.30. She also told me to play up my inner sheep farmer, which for her meant repressed and submissive. Always give in, but never without a fight. I told her Dad was an accountant in Auckland and Mum ran the council’s IT section. I had been to a sheep farm once, when I was six. She just shrugged.
He ignored my protest and sat down
“My name is John Howard and I insist on buying you a cup of tea. It is a crime for a man of means to sit alone while a lady is nearby and bored.”
“But really, that is so forward.”
“But of course it is. Without men like me being forward, ladies like you would be lonesome forever.”
I covered my face, pretending to blush, “Well, if it is only one cup of tea. Then you must leave immediately.”
And so on. He was polite to the point of oleaginous. I acceded to the point of being a door mat. Eventually, via him escorting me on my supposed errand to buy a dress, that he paid for, we entered his suite. He told me to sit down a moment while he ordered a “little snifter”.
It was a beautiful room with a picture window overlooking the Tyne. You could see the reconstructed Norman castle on the Newcastle side and the converted factory that was now the Baltic Centre for Contemporary art on the Gateshead side. It was bathed in light from behind the hotel so the city looked elegant, industrial decline as a picturesque vista. I heard him come back and turned around. He was completely naked, a glass of sherry in each hand.
I am one of those who think a good sized cock is nice enough, but is only part of the package. Something you hope the right man has, but not what makes him the right man. I say this because if John Howard had been the right man, his micro-cock might have been a problem. It was not small, it was a nipple-like blob of skin just visible in its tuft of hair.
I must have been staring because he said, “Now don’t you worry, it won’t hurt when it goes in.”
I recovered enough to go back into character. It was the only way to stop myself laughing.
“Now get your clothes on this instant! What kind of girl do you think I am?”
I strode forward, but he grabbed my arm as I passed. I gave a shake I thought was gentle but still managed to knock his hand off.
“Now, now missy, this is where it gets really fun.”
He grabbed my breast and pushed me. I decided the only way to make this realistic was to fall on the floor. I pulled my skirt up as I went down hoping it looked like it was riding. He used a chair to kneel beside me. As he apologised for being so rough his hand went up my skirt. My struggle was gentler this time just in case I was too strong for him. He thrust his groin into my face.
I tried to harden the nipple cock but nothing discernible happened.
“I can see you need some educating.” He told me and pulled at my knickers.” Let’s get this where we both have fun…”
The next night VTD and Andrej were in hysterics as I described what happened.
Andrej asked, “Did he get it in?”
I shrugged, “Who knows? There was a sticky mess needed cleaning up so something was working.”
VTD stroked my hair. “He thanked us, told us anyone who gives a bj that badly has to be a real virgin.”
I snorted, “He has to have a cock to get a bj.”
She looked more serious, “Giving head is your easiest way to please them. It works even if they’re queer doesn't Andre?j?”
Andrej interjected, “A day with a bad bj is better than any day without.”
VTD pretend swatted him. “What do you know Oscar Wank.”
She turned to me.
“Was it worth it for twenty?”
I shrugged. They both knew that meant yes.
“Then we really will have to do something about your technique.”
I shrugged bad temperedly. “I’ve had no complaints.”
She and Andrej were sitting naked on one sofa, me clothed on another. VTD switched her position so her arm was free to pick up Andrej’s cock. She stroked it, then bent down and moved her lips slowly down to its end and back a few times. She looked over at me.
“Here’s a good one to start on.”
In Angela's memory, VTD had been many things, mostly bad, but definitely worldly and in her deeply cynical way, wise beyond anything Angela could understand. What was funny is that now Angela would think her brash and forceful, the rest she would dismiss as a pretence of youth.
Angela looked at where Simon’s erection had created a small peak in the sheets. She leaned over Simon’s bed, pulled the cover back and let her lips tickle his foreskin. He groaned.
“No noise Simon.”
He put his arm in his mouth.
He was very hard. It would not take long. She slid her mouth along until her lips were at the bottom of the shaft. She felt the end at the back of her throat. Within three three movements he gave another groan and her mouth filled with unpleasant liquid. She sat up and replaced the cover. She looked straight in Simon’s eye a moment and then swallowed.
She delicately dabbed her lips.
“Some day you might want to see my house in Karori. It’s a three storey, five bedroom house on a three quarter acre flat section with mature gardens. I bought it when I was under thirty.”
She stood up.
“Do you think I got the hang of giving head in the end?”
Latisha
- 25.04.2022
- 7
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