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It was almost a year since I had been with a man. Nearly twelve months since I had felt lips on mine, a tongue in my mouth or hands on my breasts. It seemed an age since an erection had been pressed against me or I had held man’s hardened penis. Nearly a year since a man’s cock had slipped into me. It felt like an eternity since I had been fucked.
And nearly every moment of that year had been agony. There had hardly been an hour go by when I did not think about sex or when my body did not yearn to be touched, stroked and caressed. Physically I missed it so much. But emotionally I didn’t. I felt better by not having sex and that is why I had become celibate.
After thirteen years of what, mostly, had seemed to be a loving marriage, as it subsequently turned out my ‘loving’ husband had been shagging all and sundry all through my ‘idyllic’ wedlock, I had to confront building a new sex life. I had tried being a ‘new woman.’ That is being like a man and ‘fucking ’em and leaving ’em,’ but late thirties was too late to start. I had dated guys to whom I felt, or developed, affection and had let them shag me because I felt I might fall in love. I had a few one-night stands and for a while I had, what the Americans call, a ‘fuckbuddy.’
None of them worked. I always had a feeling of remorse, some guilt, a touch of slight disgust. My early, very English, middle class, upbringing got in the way: love and sex were intertwined; you only did the latter if the former was present.
So, after trying, quite hard, for a couple of years after my divorce, I took the radical step of going celibate. Emotionally it has been a success, physically a fucking disaster. I am like a bitch in heat most of the time; I masturbate so often and want to do it more frequently; I must be one of Duracell’s best customers!
It struck me all of a sudden. The common denominator with my post wedlock sexual career was that I knew them. The men that I had sex with that is. I knew them before, during and, mostly, after the sex. Sure, the couple of one nightstands I never saw again and one guy didn’t call me after he screwed me (was I that bad?), but in the main I knew them after the sex as well.
Yes, I was acquainted with them, but felt little more than that. There was no love, but I had sex with them. And after, perhaps getting up from their bed and going home, maybe putting my panties back on in a car or, occasionally, leaving a hotel room, I felt awful. The realisation that I had let them shag me combined with the knowledge that I would have to see them again revolted me, made me feel guilty and filled me with remorse. I felt that they were judgemental about me, though none said anything, that they categorised me, an easy lay, and that they condemned me; they probably didn’t, but I have always suffered from tortured logic!
But now I began thinking. If it was the knowing them and having to see them again that was at the core of the problem, maybe I could do it with men I didn’t know?
Over the next week or so, that idea was never far from my mind; it nagged at me. Could I do that? Could I let a guy I didn’t know have sex with me? And if emotionally I could, would I and how could I arrange it?
The more I thought about it and the more I realised that after being shagged I would never have to see him again, the more it appealed. Total anonymous sex. Also, there would be no build up. None of that awful, ‘should I or shouldn’t I’, ‘will he or won’t he’ and ‘what will he think of me if I let him?’
I wouldn’t have to wonder if and how he was judging me. Whether he thought I was too forward or not forward enough? How good and sexually accomplished he considered me to be and where on the male sexual rating would I be, a fucking awful five or a nicely, naughty nine? I wouldn’t have to continue with an affair that I knew after the first fuck was pointless. The advantages seemed endless. I wanted to try it, but could I bring myself to do it?
After a load of soul searching, I decided that I could do it, well might be able to. However, it would need to be with someone I didn’t know, obviously. Also, there had to be a quick closure on the relationship, nothing after the sex. As importantly as the post sex was the pre sex. No build up, no getting to know each other, no preamble and no seduction.
I racked my brains to think of how I could create those circumstances. I though of three ways.
First, I could simply pick someone up, have sex and then leave.
Second, I could get a male escort and third, similar, but go for a ladies only massage.
I hit the Internet. It was so easy. I tapped in male escorts and it was purely a case of how many and where? Female massage was less productive, but I found several men offering it, although none were anywhere near as specific as the female ads offering massage to men. So I knew I could make those two work. The third was in my own hands.
I pondered for some time. Still not at all sure I would do anything, I nevertheless made an appointment for myself. The weekend demre escort of the anniversary of my last fuck would be when I broke my celibacy. Three days, a Friday, a Saturday and a Sunday. Each day I would try a different way. Friday the escort, Saturday the pick up and Sunday the massage. No, too on top of each other. What if the escort had me several times? What if I was sated or, even worse, sore, I smiled hopefully?
Ok then, three separate days over a three-week period. I recalled that the last sex had been on a Friday, so decided that would be the day of the week when I would break my celibacy. Three Fridays in a row.
Still not at all sure I would go through with any, let alone all three, of the ideas; I decided that using an escort would be the first so I started to plan that.
It was actually quite good fun and, surprisingly, exciting. I must have looked at a couple of dozen websites before narrowing my choices down to a short-list of three. I e-mailed each of them and heard nothing from one, but got an almost instant reply from another and a reply the next day from the third. I exchanged mails with both of them before deciding on Grant.
He was thirty four, which I felt was old enough not to embarrass me, but young enough to have the sexual vigour I had missed dating men of my age and older, basically forty five year olds and up.
I had been tempted to indulge one of my fantasies and go for a nineteen year old or so toyboy type, but resisted that. With Grant I was, though, satisfying another fantasy; he was black. His photos and the video I had seen of him portrayed a tall, well-built guy, with short hair, a lithe muscular body and, I have to admit, even though it’s not something I would usually concern myself with until undressed, a great cock, both flaccid and erect. See why the website search had been mildly exciting?
On the selected day just after noon, I could hardly believe that I was checking into a hotel not too far from where I live. Everything had been arranged by e-mail including the two hundred pound fee, which covered ‘all afternoon and evening’ and within reason ‘as many times as you want.’
I had chosen a ‘superior’ room. It was large, by London standards, had a small balcony with floor to ceiling glass doors leading to it and a great view over one of the old docks. I had asked for a king size double bed and simply looking at it, as I dropped my bag, made me tingle as I realised that was where my escort would have me: it all seemed a little cold and sterile, but also very exciting.
I had arrived early, for Grant wasn’t due until 2.30, so I had a long soak in the bath, redid my hair and make-up and slipped into the dressing gown provided by the hotel. Room service brought the salad and the bottle of Chablis I had ordered at about 2.00. I nibbled bits of the salad, but was really too nervous to eat, and had a glass of wine to settle me and, hopefully, release my inhibitions a little.
When planning this I had thought about what to wear. I was undecided whether I should, perhaps, just wear a dressing gown or, whether I should be fully clothed? If the dressing gown, with underwear or naked under it? And if fully clothed what sort of underwear, sexy or normal?
I had no idea whether Grant would undress me or, whether we would simply undress ourselves and go to bed.
In the end, I decided to wear a pale grey, silk dress. The loose skirt was just above the knee and slightly flared, although it fitted snugly over my tummy and bum. The top was fairly tight emphasising my boobs, and somewhat low-cut, showing a lot of them and there were, what I thought were, inviting looking buttons from the scooped neckline to the waist.
After much deliberation, I had opted for sexy underwear. Why? What was I trying to prove? For whom was I doing it? God knows. However, standing before the mirror at 2.15 I felt very nervous and even more excited. The white lacy bra and thong looked good against my, pretty much, all-over tan. The bra was ridiculously flimsy, but somehow coped well with its 33 B cargo providing the slight support it needed, but really hiding nothing. My nipples had, as they always do when I am sexually aroused, exploded and were standing up hard and straight and were very visible through the diaphanous, net and lace. The white, lacy thong covered what it needed to at the front, had a gusset that contained my lips and a slither of silk that snaked between the full cheeks of my bum. I hadn’t chosen stockings on the grounds that they would probably be a bit OTT. I wore my shoulder-length, blonde hair down.
As the 2.30 deadline approached, I still couldn’t believe what I was doing. That I was going to pay a guy to fuck me: it just didn’t seem possible. However, the phone ringing and a voice saying. “Hi, is that Christina, it’s Grant here,” showed me that it clearly was not only possible, but was actually happening.
Waiting for him to come up in the lift, I was actually shaking with nerves.
I was relieved that Grant derince escort measured up well to what I had seen on the net, for I had no idea what I would have done had he been vastly different.
“Hi Christina?” He asked when I opened the door.
“Yes, yes I am Christina and you’re Grant, right?”
“I certainly am,” he replied flashing me a big smile, his eyes glinting slightly mischievously. “You going to invite me in or send me away?” He added, his smile even broader.
“Oh sorry, yes, yes of course, please come in,” I stammered opening the door further and pressing my back against the wall as he came in.
“Mmmmmm, what a lovely room,” Grant said walking over to the window and looking out. “And what a great view.”
I walked over and stood beside him a few feet away. He turned and looked at me and again flashing that rather captivating smile added. “In all directions.”
I’m sure I blushed. “Er thanks, um yes, it is isn’t it, outside I mean.”
“I meant inside as well Christina, you are beautiful.”
I was just getting more and more nervous. I didn’t know what to do or what to say. I felt awkward and uncomfortable as I looked at the young guy with whom I would shortly be having sex. Was that possible?
“Really, Grant. I mean thank you, thanks.”
“You are very welcome.”
I managed to gain a modicum of control.
“Can I get you a drink; I have white wine or water?”
“Wine would be great thanks; shall I pour for both of us?” He asked as we both moved at the same time towards the table holding the ice bucket with the two bottles in it. We nearly bumped into each other.
“Yes sure, thanks that would be fine,” I mumbled very, very aware of our closeness and his presence.
Our eyes met and he put his hand on my wrist.
“You seem very nervous Christina.”
“Yes I am, I have never done this before.”
“I know, you told me in an email. Just relax, I’m pretty experienced,” he smiled.
“Yes I guess you must be.”
He poured our wine and we stood looking out over the dock by the window.
“How do you want to do this Christina?”
“What, how do you mean?”
“Well different ladies have different preferences.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well some like to sort of be seduced, others like to take the lead, some want to play out a fantasy and yet others just like to undress, do it and then finish.”
“Oh I see.” Of course I didn’t really see and of course I was now panicking for I hadn’t given that any thought, silly bitch that I can be.
“Er, I don’t know,” I answered truthfully, but adding for some reason. “Shall I pay you now?”
That smile greeted that suggestion. “Sure.”
I gave him the envelope with the money. He opened the envelope and glanced at the twenty pound notes, but didn’t count them and simply shoved them into his inside pocket.
“Would it help, Christina, if I led the way?” He asked.
I felt relieved and pleased.
“Yes Grant, I think it would.”
He closed the gap between us and I thought for a moment he was going to kiss me. I wasn’t sure I wanted that. Kissing a stranger means nothing does it? And also it’s very affectionate, tender and loving. What we were about was sex, nothing more, nothing less, simply straightforward sex.
He didn’t. Instead, he took hold of my hand, turned and led me to the bed. He pushed me down so I sat on the edge and said.
“Lay back, right in the middle of the bed.”
He plumped the pillows up so I had a pile to lean back on. For some daft reason, considering that soon I was going to be naked with him, I pulled my skirt down so that most of my legs, which I had bent and drawn up a bit, were covered.
He stood to the side of the bed and simply stared at me for a while as I wondered what the hell he was going to do.
“Just relax Christina, shall I call you that or, Chrissy?”
“I don’t mind,” I replied a little croaky; things were becoming far more intimate than I had imagined they would.
“Tuck your legs up, Christina, you’ll be more comfortable,” he said quietly his fingers going to the buttons of his sparkling white shirt. I did tuck my feet under my bottom rather than lying out on the bed, he was right it was more comfortable.
His eyes were boring into mine as one by one, without saying a word he undid all the buttons on the shirt and pulled it out of his tight blue jeans.
“Fuck” I thought he’s going to strip in front of me, and that is exactly what he did. The sheer fucking confidence of the man amazed me as he shrugged his shirt off and I looked at his glistening almost hairless chest. Each muscle was well-defined, he looked fit and very strong. I was becoming aroused.
“Yes?” Grant said enquiringly as his hands went to the brown pleated belt.
I nodded, I couldn’t speak. He undid his belt and his fingers grasped the tag of his zip. Again he asked me.
“Yes Christina? Shall I?”
Again I simply nodded as the heat rushed through my didim escort body. My clit seemed to vibrate, my breasts seemed to swell and my nipples exploded into their fullest hardness. Surely, I thought, they would show through the thin silk. I looked down and felt embarrassed at just how obvious they were and just how much they were on show. “Shit, why be embarrassed, this is pure sex and I’m paying him?” I suddenly thought
As I looked at him sliding his zip down, I saw the knowing smile on his face, he had noticed.
“Touch them Christina,” he said softly. “Touch your lovely breasts for me.”
It was as if I was hypnotised, as if I was under his spell. I cupped one of my breasts and ran my fingertip across the swollen nipple of the other as he slid his jeans down. I gasped when I saw that he hadn’t bothered with underpants, or socks come to that; wise, men look so awkward removing them, especially if left to last!
Sliding out of his jeans and holding them at arm’s length as if offering them to me, he stood before me naked. He looked fantastic. He wasn’t erect, but there was clearly some swelling in his penis, well I thought there must be, for it seemed to be larger than what I had seen on the photos on the net. I almost giggled when I thought. “Perhaps he has grown.”
Grant moving right to the edge of the bed and resting one knee on it so that he was just a few feet away from me, stopped any thought I had of giggling. His well-built, muscular body, his shiny black skin and his respectably, no unusually in my experience, large cock made me shudder with want.
“Undo the buttons if you like Chrissy,” Grant said with an assurance I had never experienced in a man. He took his cock in his hand and lifted it up. “Get your breasts out for me, make me hard.”
The effect of his words and actions on me was incredible; I so wanted to please him, and I was paying the fucking bill!
I had never been in such a situation, I had never been with a stranger like this, I had never been with anyone who had the assurance and confidence in themselves and their body as Grant, I had never been with a male hooker and I had never been with a black man. But now I was going to experience all of those things in one fucking-great package.
I did undo the buttons, I did caress my breasts, I did get them out of my bra and I did play with them. And wonderfully, magically and so satisfyingly for me, Grant got hard. It was a fabulous sight: his cock reared up and stood proud, hard and straight right up his flat belly straining so that the uncircumcised tip reached his navel.
He ran his fingers up and down it looking me in the eye all the time. I was now squeezing and pinching my breasts, desperately, almost, wanting to be naked and crushed up against his firm, muscular black body.
There was a slight knowing smile on his face as he whispered.
“Be the slag you want to be Chrissy. Be the slut your body desires, but your mind resists.”
God the words were so right, so apt, just what I wanted to hear. How did he know to say?
“With me Chrissy you can indulge your body not comply with your mind. In an hour or whenever, I will walk out of this room and you will never need to see me or talk to me again, so you can do whatever you want, you can be whatever you like, no one will judge you, there will be no tomorrow today or yesterday tomorrow.”
Oh fuck I thought as those perfect words crashed into my mind. He was saying exactly what I wanted to hear.
“Take the dress off for me Chrissy,” his soft voice demanded as he stood so close stroking his awesome cock.
I struggled out of it and sat on the edge of the bed close to where he was standing.
“Mmmmm, you look wonderful, so sexy.”
Rather stupidly all I could think of saying was. “Thank you, so do you?” As indeed he did. But then what woman, especially a celibate one in her early middle age, wouldn’t think that a young man with such a physique and such a strainingly hard cock just inches from her sex starved body didn’t look sexy.
“May I?” He asked, indicating for me to turn so he could reach my bra strap. As he leaned forward kneeling on the bed, his cock rubbed against my arm. It made me shudder and want to grab it, but I was enjoying him being in control and, despite the fact that as I was paying and could presumably do what I wanted, I preferred to be directed and led by this sexually fascinating man.
Unlike many men, he adroitly undid the clasp and removed my bra. He reached round me murmuring as he cupped my boobs. “You have wonderful breasts Chrissy, gorgeous breasts, do you like me playing with them?”
Fuck, did I like it? It was fantastic. He had a lovely touch and combined lifting them, pressing them together squeezing them and rubbing them, with pinching and pulling on my nipples. It was amazing and I felt myself both pushing my tits against his hands and leaning myself backwards so his cock pressed against my back. I closed my eyes and revelled in the lovely feelings for what may have been a few minutes or an hour, I didn’t know, I just let the sensations waft over me.
Then he stopped. I turned and saw his cock was just inches from my face. He was holding it, as if offering it to me. In fact he was offering it for he said softly.
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