Miss Makeover. A Handsome Client

By on November 24, 2010

Why would a handsome young man pay for sex? Because his wife or girlfriend won’t be dirty. Far too many people are squeamish about sex games. Oh well, more money for us sex workers. More pairs of shoes for me.
Shall I do the obligatory shoe paragraph? Then it’ll be over for good.
I’ve been dying to for ages. Martini Osvaldo, Gianna Meliani, Pollini, Zocoli: even the names of these high heels are pure poetry. To glide around exclusively on these superb creations would be heaven but you must cherish these shoes. They’re almost too good to wear. I would certainly never let a client touch them, although they do ask. Even men – those swinish slobs who are blind to the aesthetic imperative of anything except breasts and bottoms – even the porcine ones can gaze upon the highest of heels and know rapture.
Sorry, but someone mentioned shoes and I went off into a little dream. I have an ideal client! Which might as well be a dream as most of them are flawed. Jerry, my ideal, is clean, courteous and punctual. I couldn’t possibly fall for him but then I don’t want to. I’ve already got enough unrequited love for a lifetime. I won’t need any more. Jerry is a builder (Lady Bracknell. “A builder?”  Well he’s young, smart, fit and handsome. And deliciously rough.)
He had claimed to be big and burly and so he was. Burly as the proverbial brick outhouse and just as solidly built. There was a spare tyre which he had constructed from fry-ups and lager but that’s real men for you. It’s rare to find a six pack on straight men, although they’re standard issue on Muscle Marys. He’s a charming client, wanting nothing more than a spank and a wank, perhaps a thicker strap-on than last time. Most up themselves Dignity Dommes would consider this beneath them, having started to believe their own publicity. They prove only that absolute power corrupts and are best avoided.
My client’s submissive endearments sound genuine yet he’s not clingy. Being happily married (they’ve only just started) he just wants this obsession out of his system before going back to argue over custody of the remote control. I haven’t the heart to tell him that it’s just going to get more intense.
“I’ve going to IKEA later,” he said, without the whipped dog demeanour most men would adopt.
“Your wife taking you?” I asked, a little impishly. I do like a tease.
“Nah! You don’t want women along, do you? Everything you see they’re saying ‘That’s nice. Let’s get that. That’s nice.’ You’d never get out of there.”
Well. Really! I should tell him off. Maybe I should just thank him for him for his refreshing candour.  The condescending,  patronizing bastard. However, his smile could unfreeze Germaine Greer. He’s a handsome bastard. I spank him much harder than usual though, ignoring his outraged cries and gasps, as he has transgressed the unwritten code, thou shalt never criticize another of the sisterhood.  When he starts to struggle, even, heresy!, trying to worm out from where I have trapped him between my thighs, I scold him long and hard, threaten him with a ban, and then tan him till his pert little bottom cheeks are dark crimson. It doesn’t take long to bring him off after that, just three rubber gloved fingers penetrating him and some angry whispers in his ear.

“I’m so disappointed in you. Take your punishment like a man. Not a sniveling little boy.” A final virtuoso accelerando and he’s come therefore  desperate to leave. Which is of course what he’s paid for. Anonymity and the right to leave immediately.

“Don’t write about me,” he says, bounding towards the stairs and  domestic bondage. Soon he will be in IKEA. Furnishing his prison cell. Keeping the head warder happy.
“Of course not!” I call after him.
As if I would…

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2 Comments

mark ramsden

December 15, 2010 @ 20:56

Bet he still fucked up every single job he ever did though. “Oh excuse me, I’ve just got to finish off something else tomorrow, probably see you next week etc.” Six months later when you and your partner are in therapy or on heroin him and his merry band of bodgers will still be fucking you up. Cue Harold Shand from The Long Good Friday. “Builders? I shit ’em.”

mark ramsden

December 15, 2010 @ 02:08

Real or fiction? I was that Prostate Massage Therapist. Not en femme though. And, unbelievably, the builder was a hip, sharp, amusing geezer. And it was lovely the way he sighed, “Ooh! Yes Master.” when he was accomadating various objects.

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