Taking His Money

I suppose this was the most horrid bit of it all; looking up at his red face, seeing so much lust for me in his eye. It was if he were searching inside me for something or someone he would never find. Then him kissing me full-on with those over-ripe lips of his, lips that had just given my body so much pleasure.

Slow getting into his rhythm. As he blustered and puffed, he kept telling me to pinch his nipples. So I did. The harder I pinched the more focused his fucking became. God, those man breasts! As substantial as any woman's. I pinched them spitefully, rubbed them in circles with both palms and then pinched them again, over and over. This made him almost whimper. His rutting became convulsive and his fat belly undulated in waves over my torso.

Thankfully he only managed about a minute of this inefficient lumbering before ejaculating deep inside me. The way he juddered and moaned, I thought he was in the midst of a coronary. He was utterly breathless when he rolled off me. I think if he had continued any longer I may have been calling for an ambulance.

God! Now that would have been hard to explain. You hear about such things, though: older men dying in the arms of their young lover -- or a whore's embrace.

It was getting late. While Mike lay there panting, struggling for breath, I said I had to go. I told him Dave would be expecting me back from work in half an hour. If I was late he would want to know where I had been. I got off the bed and quickly left the room. I showered in a near scalding torrent, scrubbing his spunk and saliva from me until I was raw. So much of it had got in my hair -- oh yes, I forgot to tell about sucking his cock and how I had to let him cum on my face.

Now guilt was kicking in. I dressed in a panic, struggling in a fluster to fasten my bras. When I came back into the bedroom he handed me the envelope containing forty, crisp fifty-pound notes. He said I was worth every penny. A natural, he said. I slipped it into my bag without a word.

Before I had a chance to leave, he took me in his arms and kissed me. No longer aroused by his caresses, his tongue in my mouth made me nauseous. And standing pressed against him like that only emphasised his bulk in comparison to my own slight frame. I was suddenly utterly overwhelmed with shame for what I had allowed myself to become. When his tongue had finished with mine, he looked into my eyes and thanked me. I now had nothing but contempt for him. I think he saw that. It must have hurt.

It was then that he said he wanted to show me something before I went home to my husband. I sat on the side of the bed while he went into the wardrobe and pulled out his overnight bag. From it he took a wallet containing twenty large glossy photographs, glamour shots of a girl on a park bench wearing a mini skirt, strappy heels and white silk blouse. She had long chestnut hair, shapely legs, a pleasing if slightly embarrassed smile at being photographed in the way she was. The photographer was keen to get as much leg in the shot as he could. The thing about her was that she looked just like me. Could have been my sister, my twin even.

He told me the girl was named Angie, his first wife. She had been just eighteen when they had married, he much old at twenty-eight. He said she had been killed by a drunk driver while walking home from work the Friday before Christmas. Nineteen seventy-four, I think he said it was. I looked at each photo disbelieving what I saw. Our likeness was uncanny. For a moment I was there on that bench smiling back at the photographer as he coaxed me into the pose he wanted me to assume.

"I loved her with every iota of being," Mike said as he watched me work my way through the images for the second time. "She was so beautiful -- just like you are so beautiful. When I saw you that first time it all came back to me. I thought my heart would break all over again. Perhaps you can understand now why I wanted you."

And I did. I leant into him and kissed him gently on the lips. And so we kissed in a way I never imagined I could with someone like Mike. For a moment I was his, long dead, young wife Angie.

Afterwards, as I put on my jacket and made for the door, he asked if he could he see me again. He would pay, of course. I said I didn't know.

Coming home to Dave that night was strange. It felt like a part of me had been stolen. Dave asked if I was OK. I told him what I had told Chris: that I was not well. I went up to bed and soon after he came up and got into bed naked and spooned against me, holding my breasts, his cock growing into the crack of my butt. He made me feel safe, as if he had forgiven me for all my sins. But he never had a the chance to forgive me, never found out about that night.

And the money? It was a problem. How was I going to get it into my life so I could spend it without the need for explanations, and so be able treat myself to all those the things I hankered after. It became like money laundering. Took months, dribbling it into my life little by little.

Mike didn't book in at the hotel where I worked for another month. I thought he'd got me out of his system. When he did he had another offer to make -- which I'll maybe write about later.

In those weeks immediately after our first session, my mind was completely screwed up. One side of me was disgusted with what I'd done; another part of me was thrilled by the whole thing. It was real a head-fuck. I did not know if I was coming or going half the time.

At one point in the weeks that followed I considered going on the game. If I could do it with Mike I could with anyone. We had lots of wealthy guest at the hotel where I worked, it being a five-star place and all. I tried to imagine how I could approach the right kind of man. I soon realised I hadn't a clue how to go about it. For a start, I did not have the brass nerve. This was before the internet an was everyday utility. It would be so easy today.

And what about the older me, the me who sits and taps at the keyboard today? During these last few years, with my present husband's okay, at clubs and parties, I have allowed overweight blokes fuck me. It really has not been a problem. I find them less arrogant than the beautifully muscled ones. I would never turn down a guy because of his weight. I wonder if I would feel like that if I had not experienced Mike all those years ago

Looking back, I think I would have made a good whore. I reckon five years servicing the right type of clients and I could have set myself up financially for the rest of my life.

But I never asked for money for sex with anyone other than the time with Mike. In the months after my first night with him I did go a bit wild. I Started this thing with Chris. That lasted a few months. Ironic that I ended up getting shagged in one of the hotel bedrooms after my refusal to visit Mike in one. Then there was Chef -- not to forget Lucien, our Maitre d'.

Dave and I divorced a year later. I can hardly blame him. I broke his heart. What a slut I became in my early twenties!

Hey-ho!

I feel so much better for getting that out of my system.