The Virgin and the Escort

In the prolonged absence of the real thing, I have a very vivid imagination when it comes to fantasising about fucking. My fantasies can get very elaborate. I have whole plots, usually involving men on horses with swords secretly desiring each other. Then I come in as some secondary character who facilitates that final beautiful moment where they kiss for the first time and they forget about me all together, which is fine by me: I like to watch. Give me a limitless budget, a cast of beautiful androgynous men and a herd of stallions and I'd make the best medieval boy on boy forbidden passion fuck fest you've ever seen.

I sometimes never get to the actual fucking before I peak and fall asleep. But in these fantasies, it's never anyone I know. It's some hot actor or musician that I'll never meet and thus will never find me wanting and reject me and add to my anxiety as to just what exactly all the fuss is about when it comes to the real thing. And it's never me in the fantasies.

It's never me sprawled over the tavern table while the horny Vikings take turns. It's never me who catches my older brother's friend jerking off his monster cock and gets to reap the benefits. It's some prettier, sexier, more confident, better version of me. This soulless idea I had come to believe was what guys actually wanted and everything I think I'm not.

I'd trained myself to just look and not bother to try and touch. Then I decided fantasy was never going to solve my problem, it was never going to be enough. But I didn't want any ambiguity, any tedious rigmarole, any emotional fuckery: I was done with that. I wanted to be the sole focus of an expert. A no strings, sure thing, good time. I mean, I'm about to turn forty soon, what purpose is all this repression serving and who is it for?

So even though I do still have a great time replaying my medieval pretty boy passion orgies, when I really want to go to town, show myself the good time I now know I deserve as often as I have the time and the stamina, I get his picture up.

The one I chose. The man I paid good money for, for the sole purpose of my pleasure. The one I clocked straight away on the agency website because he wasn't "flashy". He wasn't all muscles, hair cut, tight shirt, "Fabio is a master of seduction".

He was sexy, without being showy. His interests were travelling and nature, his passion was music. He had the kind of name that reminded me of an eccentric uncle in a soap opera. He had a sense of humour about himself. He was also devastatingly androgynous. The kind of pretty boy I would love to play dress up with, the kind of eyes that should be smothered in guy liner.

And it makes me dripping wet to remember, whether I get a flashback on the bus or whether I'm consciously replaying it alone in bed, with my toys...

I've had those lips on mine. I've had those hands over my starving skin, sating it finally. I've had those teeth nibbling my ear as I felt his breath shoot through me like a flash of lightening straight to my aching clit. I've had that lovely delicious throbbing cock in my hungry cunt, filling it. In my mouth, feasting on it. I've made that beautiful man cum, all over my chest. And I felt like a fucking goddess.

Me. Mousey, instantly forgettable, might as well be a nun for all my seeming sexual allure: me. And though I was getting off on him getting off on getting me off, the real affair was the one between me and my inner slut who had finally come out to play, because she had been given permission, without punishment. There was nothing in this scenario that she could do wrong. It was all welcome to the feast and she was hungry for more. And once she was out, I was hooked, fascinated, I wanted to give her free reign. She wanted to please him. Which didn't faze me in the slightest. The fact that even though I was the one paying him, I was as eager to please him as he was me. I wanted to be a good girl for him. And I was very good girl.

All the anxiety, the anguish, the head fuck shame. The constant fear of how I'd play it if my body didn't just let go and take over.

Then that warming moment in my belly where I knew he'd clocked my nerves and he said, 'Relax'.

Then suddenly is his body is on mine, in mine and my mind has nothing to say on the subject other than.....blissful silence.

This body feels like mine finally. We are in sync. I'm no longer stuck in a tangled mess of flesh that's at war with me. And his body, that's mine too. He's handed it over for me to play with as he discovers mine right back.

Is there anything sexier than a completely confident yet completely egoless man sitting on your bed, snaking on crisps and humus you feel compelled to feed him cause he's done such a good job of pleasing you he's knackered: like it's no big deal, all part of the service, that he has just fixed sex for you by fucking your brains out?

I never knew what people meant by that, I found it quite a vulgar phrase. Now I get it. My brain was in a heap on floor, looking up at me asking,

'What are we doing down here?'

I answered, 'I don't know mate, I'll pick you back up later, when I've got the energy.'

And when I check in with my cunt she's like, 'I'm having a full blown all expenses paid beach party mate, cheers, drinks are on me'

That deliciously kinky moment when he was pounding me gently and I found myself saying, 'You can do it harder' and that little slut inside me wanted to have the nerve to demand,

'Harder. Just go at me, destroy me, it's been so long.'

Because I've wanted this so long and one night as glorious as it is, will never be enough. So just give me everything you can until I can afford you again because if there's one thing it's worth scrimping and saving for it's this. This which has done more for my mind, body and psyche than all the counselling and tantric dancing and "healing your womb trauma with meditation" in the world. Because the only way to quell a starving need is to feed it something, someone, you can touch, squeeze, swallow, devour, cuddle as you doze lazily, totally spent; thoroughly fucked.

Is there any bigger turn on than realising though I was the one paying him to please me, I was getting off on pleasing him more? When I was feasting on his cock and asking,

'Do you like this? What about this?'. But because he's a good escort he says,

'I like everything that's happening' don't worry about me.'

But there was that part of you that wanted to be brave enough to insist,

'No please, give me specific instructions about exactly how you like it, I want to do it right, just the way you like it. I want you to remember me and remember how well you pleased me. I want you to get off to this, like I will.'

But the sexiest thing by far, the most enduring connection, is between you and this woman you've become. This sexy little hussy who's realised finally where all this conflict came from. The fizzy thrilling realisation that you love being a passive recipient of pleasure. That you're a natural Sub and you're clicking with his Dom and damn, what a wonderful new world he's reminded you you've always had a place in.

It turns out I'm also a total sleep perv. I can't take my eyes off him. Keep my hands off his skin. I can't believe my luck and as much as I want to wake him up and demand more, I also think; yes, sleep, you've earned it. Good boy. I'll just stroke my worn out little clit some more because there's no way she's letting me sleep tonight. All those maddening hours I spent ignoring her, taming, teasing her. Now she's in charge and she's wide awake.

And I know why my friends worry that I'll get attached. But I also know: they're not me. They can't feel this light free new body. How it felt to be me, getting what I got with him. So they don't get just how loud everything in me announces that I'm not done yet. I've only scratched the surface. It's about time. I've got a lot to make up for. Seriously, this guy ticks so many of my boxes I had to stop myself replying to his remark that he was single with,

'I'm all yours, whenever, wherever, where do I sign?'

This overwhelming sense of gratitude, not just to him, and not in a worshipping way. More like the relief at the realisation that yes, can have gentle, passionate, animalistic, respectful, super hot sex with a stranger and it means just that and nothing else. No ambiguity, no emotional fuckery, no rigid thinking due to fear of the future. There is just this sweaty, messy, fusing of flesh, soul caressing now. Just this lovely, juicy satisfied cunt.

Juicy.

I never understood why all the earth mother tantric girls I talked to said my vag, in an ideal world where it was free and satisfied, would feel "juicy" all the time. My fanny is not a bunch of grapes, if it's anything, it's a piece of rotting driftwood I just want to sink already so I can forget about it.

I get it now and I have no shame about saying cunt now either. It's the only word for me that sums up the whole shebang, the sheer volume of me that is overflowing with sizzling joy.

And on the tube the next day, my juicy cunt was still twitching with the memory that I gave it what it needed and then some. I feel so smug that the universe seemed to align to say; that guy. If I could afford him, I'd hire him outright to be my lover, my plaything, my slave, my Dom. But then all these other women wouldn't get to have what I was getting last night. And they deserve him as much as I did.

Because everyone deserves to be fucked this.
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The Virgin and the Escort

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