Whoring For Abdul free porn video

In my last story I
recounted how, during a visit with my husband to
Birmingham’s seedier quarters in search of some
adventurous sex, I was propositioned by an Asian man
who assumed I was a prostitute.

Going along with his understandable misinterpretation
of events (he had watched me give my husband a blow job
in a factory doorway on the street), I offered to suck
him off for a tenner and then let him fuck me for an
extra ten quid in a squalid alleyway. He was clearly
impressed by my services and offered to organize some
“business” for me. He had also given me a grubby card
with his name and phone number. His name was Abdul.

Since then I had thought about his offer many times,
and the various scenarios that could develop from such
an arrangement, fueled a number of fantasies. I dare
say a lot of women have fantasized about being a
prostitute, having sex with anonymous men simply
because they pay the asking price.

When I was a young girl I loved to read the Sunday
scandal sheets, exposing the suburban housewives paying
off the telly installments by having sex on the side,
the clubs that were really brothels etc. Later, when I
was a student, “Belle de Jour” became a favourite film.
It was the story of a Parisian upper class wife who
works in a brothel because its sordidness excites her.

A couple of times after using this particular fantasy
to good effect in our lovemaking, I had suggested it
might be fun to let the Asian guy arrange me some
“clients”. Though my husband also enjoyed and
encouraged my fantasies of working as a call girl or a
streetwalker, he was very nervous of my putting them
into practice because of the obvious risks.

He couldn’t see how he would be able to keep a
protective eye on me if someone else, who we knew
nothing about, was controlling events. He said that the
idea was great as a fantasy, but that’s where it should
stay. To avoid arguments I stopped mentioning “the
offer,” but it had become such a potent idea in my
erotic imagination that I carefully kept Abdul’s card
and phone number.

Normal life has a rhythm of its own, and the school
summer term came and went. Suddenly we were approaching
the end of the long holiday. We usually try to get away
for the last week, camping by the sea with the kids,
but Gary had been asked to go to somewhere in the US on
a work project for work during the last ten days in
August.

It probably sounds disloyal, but my first thought when
I heard of the trip was the phone number in my knicker
drawer. It had come to dominate my mind. Every time I
went to the bedroom I was compelled to take it out and
look at it. A couple of times I’d even gotten as far as
dialing the number, only to stop before the final
digit. These moments had my heart pounding and left me
exhausted and shaking. More than ten weeks had elapsed
since my encounter with Abdul in the alleyway. He
probably wouldn’t remember me.

Early on Friday morning I drove my husband to Heathrow
after dropping off the c******n with his mother. At
10:15 he was on his way. Feeling guilty, I dialed
Abdul’s number from a Heathrow public phone.

The phone rang for a long time before it was answered.
I almost put down the receiver as a wave of nervous
nausea gripped me. “Yes, please?” An Asian woman’s
voice greeted me. My own voice faltered as I asked for
Abdul. There was no reply but I heard her call out to
someone. A few more moments elapsed.

“Hello, Abdul Hassan. Can I help you?” in that
distinctive Pakistani Brummie accent. Taking a deep
breath I blurted it all out: how I’d turned him a trick
for £20.0 and was he serious about organizing some
business. “Of course I remember,” he said. “Can you
call me in a couple of hours? Or maybe we can meet to
talk somewhere. It’s pretty busy here.”

I told him I was able to meet him later that afternoon,
and he suggested a cafe just around the corner from our
first encounter. The café was on the edge of the
jewellery quarter.

The journey from the airport passed in a blur as I
turned over in my head what I was getting into. One
minute I was imagining having to service a procession
of strangers, submitting to their every whim, and the
next I was filled with doubts and determined to be
sensible and duck out of it. At the same time, I was
getting pleasantly hot. Inevitably the darker side of
my imagination proved to be too seductive, and at 4
o’clock that afternoon I sat waiting for my new “pimp”
in the cafe.

In order to get in the right mood, I had contrived an
outfit that normally would only get an airing in our
bedroom. Red platform peep-toe shoes, black stockings,
a little red A-line skirt and white crossover top that
just covered my nipples. I decided against a bra. A
brief suspender belt with matching flimsy black G
string, heavy bright red lipstick, plenty of mascara
and loads of cheap perfume completed the outfit.

“You look a proper cheap tart,” I thought to myself as
I walked from the car to my rendezvous. I was aware of
the disapproving glances of women and the furtive
predatory gazes of men as we passed on the street. Even
the woman behind the counter had given me a disdainful
look as I collected a cup of coffee. Her expression
implied that she “knew my type”.

There were only a couple of other customers in the
greasy spoon. Two white men in their company overalls
were talking football over mugs of tea and bacon
sandwiches. This was fortunate, as I was unsure if I
would recognize Abdul. After all, for most our initial
encounter I was looking over his shoulder as he screwed
me up against a wall! As it turned out, my concern was
unfounded. Abdul entered the cafe and came straight to
my table by the window.

Very formally he offered his hand and introduced
himself. Sitting down, he said “I see you have your
working clothes on.”

He, on the other hand, had “scrubbed up well,” and was
washed, shaved and wearing casual trousers, shirt and
light jacket. We exchanged a little small talk about
the weather before he opened the conversation I was
expecting. I explained that I could only “work”
occasionally as I had a “normal” job, and that I only
did this part time for the little extras. I also
explained that my husband was away and unaware of what
I was doing.

He said it was OK and that he could still find players
tonight, but that it might mean getting casual trade
from the street, clubs and pubs, rather than through
pre-arranged meetings, which is what he had had in
mind. Looking up I could see the two men had stopped
talking football and were absorbed by our conversation.
One of them smiled and winked as I met his gaze. The
other had his eyes fixed on my hemline which was now
showing a small band of thigh above the stocking top. I
ignored them and Abdul continued.

“What sort of things don’t you do?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well,” he leaned forward conspiratorially. “Even tarts
draw the line at some things. Some won’t kiss, some
won’t swallow, some won’t take it up the arse. I need
to know, so when I’m setting up the deal the punter
knows what he’s getting and doesn’t expect anything
else.”

“Oh, ok.” I considered, then half whispered. “I think
you can say I’m happy with all that. The only thing I’m
not keen on is guys who are into toilet stuff. In fact,
anything to do with shit or piss is out. Other than
that, whoever they are, if they pay the money I’m ok
with whatever they want. You set up the punters, tell
me what they want and fix the price. I’ll give the
service and we’ll split the money fifty-fifty.”

Abdul agreed to my terms. As we rose from the table, he
said, “If we’re to make any money tonight, I need to
make a few phone calls. Lets make a start.”

I followed him to the door. The two workmen studied my
hemline as I passed through the door into the street.
Abdul’s van was parked outside. I had to stretch to
get in the front, and this edged my skirt up, exposing
my backside to the admiring glances of the workmen who
had followed me out of the cafe. They whistled and
shouted. Abdul walked over to them as I sat in the van.
There was short conversation, after which he returned,
started the engine and pulled away.

“Fucking wankers,” he laughed “I asked them if they
wanted to fuck you, but they only had a fiver. I told
them they couldn’t even look at your cunt for that, let
alone fuck it.”

The van wasn’t what I had expected. It was quite clean
and tidy. Abdul gestured to the back.

“I emptied it out in case we need the accommodation.
Not every one wants to have it up against the wall.”

The van had the feeling of factories and garages. It
smelled both oily and sweaty, but it looked ok. He said
he had an old mattress for the floor back at his
office.

It was only a few minutes before we pulled up outside
an overhead door somewhere in the Hockley. Before I got
out of the van he had rolled up the shutter to expose
the front of an office of some kind of engineering
firm.

“This is what you do in the day, then?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered. He grinned. “With a bit of pimping
thrown in at night, just for fun.”

We entered a little office, with a desk covered in
papers and bits of machinery. Despite it being quite
bright outside, it was dark enough to need the light
from the single bulb that was in the room. Abdul sat
down in a worn swivel chair by the desk and began to
dial. Sitting on an equally battered office chair in
the corner, I tried to follow his conversations.

This was quite difficult, as he slipped in and out of
his own language, and even when he spoke English, his
speed and accent made most of it incomprehensible. Even
so every now and then I would catch a phrase or two.
Things like “Nice white woman,” “good body,” “tight
cunt,” new girl’ and the like.

Hearing myself described in such graphic detail was
humiliating, but at the same time it was having the
desired effect on me. I felt myself juicing up.

Abdul now had a few names and times written in a little
notepad. Dialing another number he lay back in the
chair spreading his legs wide. He began the
conversation in an Asian language, but gestured for me
to come to him. I crossed the little room and stood in
front of him. Still holding the phone he pointed to his
crotch with the other hand. I knew what he wanted and
dropped to my knees between his legs. Unbuckling his
belt and pulling down his zipper I fished out his cock.
It was already almost fully up–dark, thick and fat as
I remembered from my first time with him. It was
surrounded by jet black pubic hair.

Taking it in one hand, I lowered my mouth over the
bulbous end. I felt it thicken against my tongue. I
started to suck it slowly, drawing it into my mouth as
far as it would go without c*****g myself, then pulling
off it almost completely.

I heard Abdul say “Man, she’s some fucking whore, she
really fucking likes it! Yeah, she’s gobbling my dick
now.” He held the receiver down by his groin so whoever
was on the other end of the line could hear my lips
slurping round his dick.

A voice from the receiver said “Hi, you gonna come and
see me and get your arse fucked?”

All I could respond was “mmm-hmm” as I kept up my
rhythm.

Abdul resumed speaking. “So, shall I bring her round
about 11?” He paused, then continued. “She’ll do
whatever you want, man.” Another pause “Then you can
let the chef take a turn. £150 for both of you. OK.”

He put the phone on the receiver. Holding my head, and
taking over the movement himself, he said, “I’m going
to shoot now, so make sure you don’t spill any on my
best trousers.” Pushing his cock in and out of my mouth
slowly, he began to convulse. I felt the spurts of hot
spunk hitting my mouth.

“Don’t swallow! Hold it in your mouth.” It felt slimy
and salty on my tongue as I moved it around my mouth.
“Open your lips. I want to see my spunk on your
tongue.” Opening wide, I pushed out my tongue. Dribbles
of jism ran onto my fingers.

“You’re some freaky tart!” said Abdul. “Swallow it
now.”

Gulping it down I licked my lips clean and sucked my
fingers. I ‘m not that big a fan of the taste of sperm,
but I really get off on the way men are turned on by
sluttish behaviour. Burying my face in his groin I took
his softening cock in my mouth and sucked it clean.

“Fucking hell!” He said, and looked at his watch. “No
time for any more perks of the job. It’s nearly six.
Time you was seeing your first punter.”

He stood up, pushing his tackle back into his trousers.
“You’re going to work hard tonight, girl., you better
make sure you’re well lubed.”

I had no concerns about my cunt, but had put a couple
of tubes of KY in my bag. While he struggled to put a
rather stained mattress into the van, I made use of the
primitive toilet to restore my make up and apply a
liberal glob of the KY to my bumhole, pushing it well
up into my rectal passage. He was waiting to pull down
the shutter when I emerged. We climbed in the van and
headed off towards the Soho road.

As we sat in the traffic, Abdul described the man I was
to see. He was an Asian newsagent-cum-grocer, about
fifty, maybe a bit older. Very “traditional,” he spoke
English. Because it was my first time as a prostitute,
he had agreed to pay more.

“He thinks it is some kind of virginity he’s getting,”
said Abdul. “He wants to take off your clothes and fuck
you, but finish in your mouth. OK?”

“Ok,” I answered. I had the butterfly stomach that I
always got when I was nervous and turned on.

The van pulled up alongside a shop a bit like
Arkwright’s. A sign read “Open all hours,” and there
were still vegetables and stuff on display outside.

Opening the van door, Abdul counseled, “Remember, it’s
a job. Don’t waste time. The faster you make them come
the more punters we can see.”

We entered the shop. It was a typical of the Asian
shops I visited for spices and sundry groceries when
other stores were closed. Each item of produce competed
with another for shelf or floor space. You would be
pressed to think of a product they hadn’t got. Behind
the counter sat an Asian man of about sixty. He had a
full head of hair, and a neatly trimmed beard and
moustache. They were all gray. He smiled as we entered
and came round the counter to touch hands and exchange
greetings with Abdul, who introduced me to Mr. Khan as
“Miss Lesley.” They then continued to speak to each
other in Urdu.

At one point, Abdul reached down and lifted the hem of
my skirt above my stocking tops. He traced his finger
across my 36B breasts, along the line of my top, no
doubt highlighting the best features of my size ten
figure. Mr. Khan then went to the till and returned
with a handful of notes which he counted out.

Turning to me, Abdul said “He thinks you are very nice.
I’ll wait in the van.”

Mr. Khan took my arm and led me through the aisle of
groceries and magazines to a room at the back of the
shop. At the door he called out, and from a door
further into the shop a tall fat youth appeared. Mr.
Khan told him to watch the shop, and the youth made his
way to the counter area.

The room was a stock room, stacked with boxes of Corn
flakes, soap powder and the like. On the far side was a
single bed with an embroidered coverlet. I stepped
towards it and began to undo my top.

“No, No, No!” protested Mr. Khan, taking my hand. “I’ll
do it.”

I stood still as he fumbled with the fastener of my
top, then opened it to slip it down over my arms.

“Very nice,” he whispered, stooping slightly to suck my
nipple into his mouth. He reached behind to unzip my
skirt, and his whiskery chin grazed my breasts. Pushing
the waistband down over my hips, he crouched to pull
the skirt round my ankles for me to step out of.
Remaining like that for a few seconds his eyes level
with the ‘g’ string he repeated “Very nice, very nice!”

Hooking his thumbs into the side strings, he eased down
the flimsy garment to expose my neatly trimmed bush.
Holding my bottom with one hand, he motioned for me to
open my legs. As I did so, he pushed his tongue
straight into my cunt. I was already moist from
anticipation of the evening’s activities, and he lapped
at my juices.

Mindful of Abdul’s instruction to keep it short, I
gently pulled him to his feet. He wore a smart
traditional tunic and pajamas. It occurred to me that
he had probably dressed for the Mosque that afternoon,
and that his neatness was not entirely for my benefit.
I helped him slip the tunic off, and he dropped the
bottoms.

He stood like a small boy in just a white singlet. I
almost laughed. Mr. Khan was short and stocky, and his
dick was of the same proportions. Lying back on the
bed, I drew him to me. His mouth found mine. It tasted
of garlic and spices. He probed my cunt with his
fingers, then got his cock into the entrance and thrust
it in. Suddenly he was frantic, jabbing in and out
vigorously.

He sucked my nipples while his hands groped my arse.
Suddenly he stopped, climbed off me and gestured that I
should suck him. I got on my knees and took his cock in
my mouth. As it was not that long, I sucked it all the
way in until my nose was buried in his pubic hair at
the end of every stroke, as he held my head and fucked
my mouth.

Just as I thought he was at the moment of no return,
the door opened and the fat youth stood there watching
us. He mumbled something and my irritated punter
shouted some expletive in return. The youth closed the
door and left.

A few seconds later my paying lover spurted his spunk
into my mouth and I swallowed it down. A few moments
longer and the shopkeeper was dressed and mumbling a
“thank you” as he went out of the door.

I had just put my skirt back on when Abdul put his head
round the door.

“Don’t bother dressing. The nephew wants the same deal
as his uncle.”

The nephew was the tall fat youth. I didn’t like the
look of him as he shouldered past Abdul into the room.
“Take the skirt off,” he commanded. I dropped it to
the floor and once again stepped out of it. I had not
replaced my gee string. He casually unzipped his jeans
and pushed them round his knees. His cock hung down,
half hard.

“Come on, get it up.” He pointed to his dick. I dropped
to my haunches on my high red shoes and slipped my lips
round the dark greasy slug of his cock. He smelt
faintly of sweat and stale body lotion. His cock
hardened rapidly as I massaged it with my tongue. Soon
it filled my mouth. Unlike the previous occupant of my
mouth and cunt, it was both fat and long.

“Turn round,” he said. As I turned my back to him, he
pushed me forward to bend over, resting my hands on the
bed. I felt his fingers probing and opening the lips of
my cunt. Then the knob of his cock eased in. He pushed
until I could feel his dick against the neck of my womb
and his pubic hair against my bum. Leaning forward
over, me his podgy stomach rested on my back as he
mauled both my breasts. He began to work his dick in
and out of me. He was slow and deliberate. I thought he
would take ages to cum, but after only a few seconds he
uttered a groan and withdrew.

Thinking he had finished, I turned to face him. Holding
his dick, he began to wank it, pulling my face toward
it with the other hand.

“Open your mouth and push out your tongue,” he panted.
I did. Strings of slimy spunk spat from his pulsing
cock as he feverishly jerked it in his hand,
splattering my tongue face and neck. He remained
motionless in front of me, breathing hard, with his
softening dick leaking sperm onto the floor. Reclaiming
his prick with my lips, I rolled the warm sausage of
flesh with my tongue cleaning every trace of spunk from
it. Pulling it free of me, he yanked up his jeans,
tucked in his equipment and left.

Replacing my skirt and top, I wiped my face with a
tissue, reapplied some lipstick, and followed him from
the room, tucking the scrap of material that was my
knickers into my bag as I went. I figured they were
mainly a presentation feature, and were probably
surplus to requirements for the remainder of the
evening. Without a glance at either Mr. Khan or his
nephew, I exited to the street, and swayed in my high
red shoes, as I imagined a real whore would, to where
Abdul and his van were waiting.

As we pulled into the traffic, Abdul expressed his
satisfaction that I’d only taken just over half an hour
with the two men, and said that Mr. Khan would like to
be a regular customer.

In a few of minutes we parked outside a big pub down by
the football ground. It was still warm and people were
drinking outside. Inside, the place was heaving with
drinkers. They were mostly men, many of whom had been
there since the early afternoon. There were only a few
women and at least a couple–judging by their outfits-
were there for the same reason I was. I just hoped that
I don’t look as rough as them.

I stuck close to Abdul as he cut a path through the
bodies. I saw a few men who looked the worse for drink,
slumped in corners or heads down on the table. At the
far end of the room a group of West Indians and two or
three white men were playing darts.

“Abdul’s brought us some company boys, and what a
sweetheart!” said a white man who had paused from
scoring. My heart was beating fast now. How many of
these men was I going to fuck? I stood waiting as my
“agent” discussed terms.

One of the white men stood up shakily and pulled me to
him. “Gonna give us a good time, are yer luv?” I smiled
at him by way of reply, then felt his other hand pull
up my skirt exposing my stocking tops and the cheeks of
my behind .Suddenly his mouth was over mine slobbering
a kiss. His fingers, having discovered my lack of
knickers, were insinuating themselves into the folds of
my fanny.

“Fuck off, Stan,” protested a real brummie voice. An
arm separated my drunken lover and me and pushed him
away. “Me and Steve have paid for some fun, so you’ll
have to cough up and take your turn. Come on, luv.”

I looked at Abdul. He nodded his assent and mouthed
“just a fuck for both.” The scorer took me by the arm
and led me across the room. His mate Steve trailed in
our wake. Both of them were thirtyish, shaven-headed
and wearing plasterer’s overalls. Off a corridor at the
back of the pub we entered another room. The smell and
the white tiles told me they had brought me to the
gents even before I saw the urinals.

Some old chap was standing having a pee as we entered,
and he muttered something which included “disgusting,”
as my escort pushed me into one of the door-less
cubicles and began to slip his work clothes round his
knees. The old man shuffled out of the room.

“Get your tits out,” instructed my client. I undid the
wrap around top so my breasts were completely exposed,
and put my left foot on the toilet to give him easy
access to my cunt. His pants were round his knees, and
his cock was standing up, its bell-end shiny. Probing
deep into my fanny with what seemed like all of his
hand, he placed his knob in the fleshy opening. With a
bending and straightening of his legs he thrust it in
to the hilt. It was a decent size and I gasped as it
hit the top of my cervix.

Over his shoulder I could read the graffiti that was on
the wall, and wondered if there would soon be something
about me for men to read and wank over. He was
battering me now against the wall, his mouth round my
nipple. Steve stood by the doorway watching, his hands
in his pockets. Two black guys came in. They emptied
their bladders and took a look as I bounced on the end
of scorer’s cock, my legs now round his waist, but they
made no intervention.

“Nice tits man, fuck her good for us,” said the one as
they departed. The early evening’s activity had not
got me anywhere near a climax, but now my cunt was
spasming with every thrust. He, unfortunately, was even
closer and abruptly deposited the first load of spunk
in my hole of that day. Unceremoniously he lowered me
to the floor and stumbled out of the cubicle without a
word.

In that brief moment I had forgotten Steve, and looked
up to see him just completing a piss. “Your turn,” I
said, still leaning against the wall holding my skirt
up. He came over with his flaccid cock dangling from
his overalls.

“If I’ve got to have sloppy seconds,” he said, “You’ll
have to get me ready.” Standing in the cubicle doorway
he offered me his floppy dick.

Taking off my top completely, I hung it on what
remained of the toilet roll holder and squatted down to
suck his dick. It was a medium sized cock complete with
foreskin and still leaking piss. It very quickly began
to engorge. He wasn’t fully hard when he told me to
turn round and bend over. Supporting myself on the
toilet seat, I felt him ease his dick into me from
behind until his pubic hair was against my buttocks.

As soon as he began to move, my contractions resumed
and I pushed back against him, hoping to get a climax.
There was congealed shit on the bowl of the toilet and
yet more graffiti down at this level. The smell and
squalor fueled my excitement. Suddenly I was jerking to
the end and so was he. He came abruptly, pulling out
and shooting his stuff all over my arse as I quivered
in climax.

Abdul’s voice came from the doorway. “Stay where you
are, there are some more punters.”

I heard a zip, and a cock slipped into me easily and
began to fuck me rapidly. After my first orgasm, my
cunt is so sensitive I can sometimes slide straight
into another and this time I did start to twitch, but
whoever he was finished so quickly it subsided. At
least a couple more cocks took their turn before a
short chubby black chap with a fat uncircumcised dick
turned me round for a blow job. He too, came in my
mouth with just a few jerks of his hand, then turned
away from me without so much as a thank you.

Then Abdul was saying, “Get your clothes on. We have to
meet a couple of punters in Smethwick in five minutes.”
He stood at the toilet door while I pulled on my top,
wiped my face, cunt and behind with wet wipes, and
reapplied the trademark lipstick. I then followed him
out through the pub to a chorus of appreciative
whistles.

It took much longer than the five minutes to get over
to Smethwick, where we parked up in aside street
alongside the Grey Mare pub. Loud music blared out from
the doors of the pub into the fading light of the warm
evening. It was reggae, probably Bob Marley or maybe
Pete Tosh, and groups of black guys stood with their
drinks or smoking around the entrances. Abdul got out
of the van and told me to wait.

I wound the window down and watched the street,
listening to the strains of “No woman, no cry.” Yes,
definitely Bob Marley. Abdul came back in a short while
and got back into the van.

“Can’t find them. They must have moved on as we’re
late.” He was irritated.

“There’s plenty of men in the street,” I suggested.
“Should we see if they want to play?”

He looked doubtful, explaining he didn’t know this pub
well and that as a casual hooker the price would be
very low.

“Better than nothing. You wait in the van,” I giggled,
sliding out of the van, showing plenty of stocking top
in the process.

There were plenty of heavy West Indian “Hello,
darlin’s,” as I slipped past the guys on the door and
entered the pub. The music was pounding and the
fragrance of dope hung heavy in the air. I wandered
through a couple of rooms and upstairs to the disco. It
was hot and sticky and I had plenty competition from
the many women in there. A couple of guys tried to get
me on the dance floor but backed off when I asked them
if they fancied some fun. They certainly didn’t intend
paying. Thinking it had been a bad idea to come in
here, I was leaving by the door opposite the van when a
couple of blacks with dreadlocks stopped me.

“Doin’ no business in there?” asked the taller guy.
“It’s too loud to talk,” I explained.

“You can talk wid we here,” said his companion. “Wot
you do for a tenner?”

“You mean each?” I laughed. “Or between you?”

The tall man lounged against the wall behind me,
obscuring me from the others in the street. Then he
spoke quietly in my ear.

“I’d like to shove my black dick up your pretty white
arse. You do that for a tenner?”

He lifted my skirt and pulled me into his lap. I could
feel his cock between the cheeks of my bum.

“What about your mate?” I asked.

“Him like to watch, maybe you blow his dick or
something if he in the mood.” Stepping away from him, I
offered ‘Ok, for £40 it’s a deal. You and him, in the
van over there, take it or leave it.”

They followed me cautiously to the van. Abdul, who had
been watching, got out and opened the rear door of the
van.

“Pay him first,” I said, climbing into the van,
displaying a lot of stocking top and a bare behind to
anyone taking notice. The tall guy counted out the
agreed sum in notes and change. I don’t why this is
true, but somehow it seems more sordid if you’re paid
in coin rather notes. Then they both clambered in with
me.

The shorter of the two was about five eight. He sat on
the end of the mattress, leaning against the side of
the van, pointedly waiting for his companion to kick
things off. Undoing my top, I took it off, and then
removed my skirt. Wearing only my red shoes and black
stockings I shuffled on my knees toward the tall skinny
black who was so tall that he also was on his knees to
avoid bumping his head on the van roof. I reached out
and unbuckled his belt.

As I tugged his jeans down his cock sprang half hard
into view. It was impressive, rather like half a pound
of black pudding. He pulled off his jacket and shirt,
revealing a spare but muscular torso. Lowering my head
to his groin, I began to lick the turgid tool and
massage his scrotum. It grew, filling my mouth. It was
as big a dick as I have had. It was more than 9 inches
long.

Stroking my tits, he was saying, “Come on, girl, suck
that dick!” It became hard as an iron bar and I was
happy to lavish plenty attention on it. Just the sight
of big cocks gets me going.

Laying me down on the tatty mattress, he lowered
himself on me.

“Come on, girl, let that pussy grease up me dick.”

I held my fanny wide open as he slid his whole length
in one smooth thrust. My cunt felt stretched by his
dick but was sensitized and slippery. I imagined it
must be like sliding his dick between two glazed
peaches. Once, at home, when I was really turned on,
I’d got on my hands and knees and looked at my cunt in
a mirror, and that’s how it appeared to me, the walls
of my vagina protruding from my cunt opening, swollen
and shiny with juice.

Leering down at me he began to slide in and out of me.
It felt brilliant and again I felt myself responding
lifting my stockinged legs round his waist so he could
drive in further. I clenched my cunt muscles round his
rod on the out stroke. Out of the corner of my eye I
could see that his voyeur friend was pulling his cock
as he watched. My lover’s steady thrusts stopped and he
withdrew, kneeling in front of me, his black cock
waving, slick with my liquid. Knowing what was to come
I reached behind and found the KY from my bag then
applied a substantial glob of it to the rosebud of my
arse.

He said nothing as I knelt in front of him and pushed
my buttocks up to present my dark hole to him. I felt
his hands caressing my behind, smoothing and pulling
the two orbs apart. Then quite gently a couple of
fingers entered me, reaming around and opening me up.
It didn’t hurt, even when they were joined by a third.
They just made me feel very full and tight. Every now
and then I gave an involuntary gasp or groan, as he
also now had half his other hand in my cunt. The
pleasure was intense. When he spoke it was almost a
surprise, as I had forgotten the others in the van.

“Leroy, you gonna let this woman’s mouth go to waste?
Get up and fuck it, man. She loves it.”

Leroy did as he was told, and slipped his (thankfully)
average-sized cock between my lips. It was difficult
concentrating on what was going on behind me while
sucking this dick, but I suddenly realized that the
fingers had been replaced by that big cock. God, it
felt huge! But as I pushed back against him, it slid
relentlessly into my arse.

He paused briefly before resuming his pressure, pulling
back on my hips to ease it further in. A few more
moments and I could feel his balls up against the
opening of my fanny, hard and prickly with hair. The
massive tool began to slide out of me, seemingly
sucking out my insides, then returned to penetrate me
completely again. He gently accelerated the motion till
soon he was fucking my arse as fast as he had earlier
plundered my cunt.

I began to shudder into another orgasm, although where
it started I don’t know. My juices ran out in a flood,
drenching the mattress. In my reverie I couldn’t keep
my mouth round Leroy’s dick, and he was left to wank
himself.

My partner’s thrusting continued through my orgasm, and
his fingers occupied my cunt. He shouted to Abdul, “You
have got some real dirty woman here, she ought to be
payin’ us she enjoyin’ it more.” Then to me, “I’m
goina’ shoot my stuff now, darlin’, you want to show me
what a dirty slut you are?”

His cock pulled out of me and I knew my arsehole must
be gaping wide as it left.

“Turn roun.” I shuffled round on my hands and knees to
face him. He sat on his haunches, his dick like a black
cucumber jutting from his groin streaked with lather
from my bumhole.

“Now finish me off with them red lips. Lick your shit
off my cock.” Lowering my open mouth over his slimy
pole, the musky acrid smell of my own arse filled my
nostrils. It didn’t taste of much. Maybe it was a bit
gamy, but that’s all. It just felt so disgusting and
degrading and I guzzled on his meat like it was the
sweetest fruit until he began to spunk into my mouth.

Lifting my head off the end of his cock, he sprayed my
face with the last spurts, then wiped his cock in my
hair. I lay with my face in the mattress, exhausted,
while Leroy took advantage of my available cunt to
complete his journey to orgasm, depositing his
contribution inside me.

Perhaps I dozed off or maybe I was momentarily out of
it, but suddenly I was aware of the van door being
opened and my two punters climbing out. Abdul stood by
the door.

“you ok?” he enquired.

“I think so,” I replied, “but I could do with
freshening up a bit.” Truth was I would have been happy
to call it a day at this point. I was completely worn
out and ready for some rest. Not only that, but
everything had gone without any problems, so perhaps I
should call time on this adventure now.

Unfortunately, Abdul had promised to deliver me at
eleven o’clock to a couple of Pakistanis who ran a
restaurant, and had agreed to a good deal if the owner
could bugger me before his chef had a conventional
fuck. I didn’t feel I could let him down, especially as
I had rather forgotten “it’s a job” with the last
punters. So, after stopping off at his workshop to make
use of the washbasin and have a cup of tea, we headed
for Sparkhill and, I hoped, my last “trick” of the
evening.

We entered the restaurant via a door from the access
road at the back of the place. As we walked through, I
recognized it as a place I had visited once or twice
with my husband. It was reasonably busy with diners.
They were mostly white couples and groups rounding off
an evening’s drinking. Abdul sat me down at a table
toward the back of the restaurant and went in search of
the owner, who was at the front desk.

They returned and sat down with me, talking in Urdu. A
waiter came and the owner ordered some food for Abdul
and then led me to a room at the back of the kitchen.
It was evidently a sort of rest room with some easy
chairs. The back wall had rows of hooks with the
“normal” clothes of the waiters and staff hanging on
them. I knew exactly what he wanted, as we had
discussed it on the way, so as soon as the door closed
behind us I slipped out of my clothes with the
exception of my suspenders, stockings and shoes.

Malek, the owner, also quickly removed his clothes. He
was a tall slim man, with lovely brown skin, and I was
relieved to see he was average in the equipment stakes.
I didn’t relish another monster tool up my arse just
now. Complimenting me on my figure, in the finest
Birmingham Asian English, he stood behind me kissing my
neck and fondling my breasts.

My nipples had had their fair share of attention this
night and I was anxious to get things moving, so I
reached behind to fondle his cock and scrotum. There
was an immediate response and his dick thickened in my
hand. Turning around, I got on my knees for the
umpteenth time that evening and sucked him to a full
hard on. He was already groaning with pleasure when I
let his dick slip from my lips, turned around and
offered him my bum.

He nudged the knob against my puckered ring. My anus
swallowed it easily as I had expected, after the
stretching it had undergone earlier, plus some
additional KY, and my punter began to fuck my arse in
earnest. In what seemed like only seconds he was
grunting and discharging his spunk into my anus.
Staggering back from me he uttered a mumbled thank you,
hurriedly replaced his clothes and left the room.

Waiting the arrival of the chef I collapsed in one of
the shabby armchairs, vaguely conscious of the latest
deposit leaking from my backside. There was a knock on
the door. I ignored it. Then it was repeated. This was
bizarre. Picking up a discarded table cloth I covered
myself up and approached the door. The knocking
persisted. Opening the door slightly, I was confronted
by the chef, a short chubby round faced thirty-
something, still in his stained white t-shirt and
apron. He glistened with sweat. He was obviously
nervous, and also short on language. Feeling sorry for
him I took his arm I led him into the room.

When I dropped the cloth, he would have fled the room
if I hadn’t held him. Like a frightened rabbit, he
stood there while I removed the apron and began to undo
his trousers. Like Mr. Khan, he wore the traditional
pajama bottoms. They slipped to the floor, revealing a
dark brown penis rapidly being diminished by nerves. It
hung lifeless and tiny below his shirt. He looked so
pathetic that I began to kiss him, and he slowly began
to touch me.

Lying on the floor, I got him to crouch over me and put
his penis between my lips. While he did this I stroked
his bollocks and shoved my finger a little way into his
bum. Don’t ask me why, but this often does the trick
for men in such situations. The tiny prick began to
grow and with it his confidence.

Soon it was an average-sized hard cock, and the chef
was keen to get it up my cunt. His fingers opened me up
and he lay on me pinning me to the floor as he rutted
with fervor, his flabby mouth clamped over mine. It
only took a few frenetic strokes and he began to come
shuddering and gasping as his stuff oozed into me and
out around his dick.

Like his boss, he was on his feet and dressed in
seconds, smiling an embarrassed “thank you” as he
exited the door. I was so knackered I lay where he left
me on the floor, the combined donations of the
evening’s cocks dribbling onto the threadbare carpet.

Eventually Abdul came in. Raising myself into a sitting
position I asked “Time to go?”

“Will you do one more job, then we go home? The waiters
want to know if they can have you while you are here.
It’ll be a good pay-off to end the day.”

“How many?” I asked weakly.

“Six or seven, but they just want a quick fuck or a
blow job.”

“OK,” I agreed. “But that’s it, then I’m going home.”

They filed into the room one by one, all young men,
dropped their trousers and either fucked me on the
floor or stood in front of me and fed their dicks into
my mouth. According to their preference, they either
splattered my face and body with their jism or added it
to rest that I had either swallowed or received in my
various orifices during this night. When it was
concluded, I put on my “working clothes” on top of the
drying deposits that clung to me. I went outside and
found Abdul waiting by the van.

By the time he had driven across the city to where I
had left my car, I had fallen asleep. He woke me
gently, and handed me a bundle of notes which he said
was £300. I couldn’t work out how much that was per
punter, but then that wasn’t the point it. Being paid
just added to the perversity of the evening. I turned
down Abdul’s offer of a nightcap at his place, and of a
repeat performance the following evening.

“But maybe next Friday, before my husband gets home.”

In any event, I needed a little time for the crucial
parts to recover from the excesses of the evening, and
to savor the adventure from the safety of my normally
conventional existence.