Guest post from Lady Anonymous:
A lot of people ask me, “What’s the worst experience you’ve had as an escort?”
While my friends have endured men who were violent, overbearing or frankly fortunate to even have wives to cheat on — my worst experiences have been so ludicrous that I have to laugh at them.
And then write about them.
So here’s a story about Big Fish; a client who needed a little ‘relief’ before presenting his keynote at a large, well-known Sydney event.
He was a good looking guy.
Well built, square jaw, piercing eyes that scanned up and down my body.
His aura of power would be most attractive… were it not tainted by the stench of a junk breakfast and the stale residue of perspiration, nerves and stage fright.
Yes, Big Fish was a six-foot plus suited beast of overwhelming musk.
As he edged towards me — fuck, my very career flashing before my eyes — I had to catch my breath. A tsunami of onions, pungent sweat and Red Bull collided head-first with my perfume. There was only one winner.
How does a client end up smelling of burger van before lunch on a Wednesday morning? How does any man?
These are questions an escort never wants to ask, her intrigue giving way for horror as it dawns on her what lies ahead…
WHY does this man have to smell of burger van?
Lords of the escorting universe! Why have you chosen me?
I felt his lips on my neck and responded in kind. Rolling my head back with faux pleasure slash get-the-fucking-onions-away-from-me.
We only had an hour before he needed to be back.
An hour is a long time in the sex industry.
One has to be ‘versatile’ to tend to the whims of wildly different animals.
An escort may need to be caring, or cold, occasionally a porn star, but also capable of capturing the definitive ‘girlfriend’ experience.
And this session with Big Fish was curious, to say the very least.
Curious still doesn’t explain why in the heat of passion I should find myself standing tall, Onions hunched on all fours with his pants around his ankles, his belt clenched tightly in my hand.
“You fucking asshole!” I screamed, slashing the belt across his arse cheeks. “You think you can embarrass me in public like that? In front of my MOTHER?”
The thick whip of leather on meaty, clenched buttock filled the room as I took on my debut turn as Angry Wife Humiliating Big Fish in Marital Suite.
Here was a client who fantasised in vivid detail, oh such vivid detail, about his newly wed dragging him — kicking and screaming — away from the wedding reception, to be treated as a very naughty boy.
(Whether he envisioned nailing an entire platter of onion sandwiches before said encounter is still a mystery to me.)
The gist of this fantasy was that after several rounds of my annihilating his rump with cowhide — which I found quite therapeutic for a Wednesday morning, actually — he was to regain his balls and turn the tables. He would put me in my place, commandeer this stillbirth marriage and proceed to ejaculate on my face.
The Alpha Male comeback.
Is that how it works in the darkest recess of your twisted minds, gentlemen?
I suppose it counts as ‘winning on points’ in the male dimension.
And so we wrestled to a finish.
Onions spat back at me with a virtuous performance, “Enough! Amanda — that’s e-fucking-nough. You’ve been SICK for months. The wedding, the planning, the mood swings. I can’t fucking take it! I’m done with this shit.”
I swayed back on my heels and took in the sight.
Onions bulging forth, his face a beetroot mass of swollen marital rage just waiting to spill over — not at his wife, but at a random Sydney escort.
As you do.
I tiptoed towards him, doing my best to continue the illusion of marriagedom between sighs and the seductive hair twirls that somehow put me at greater ease with this situation — the fact that there might actually be some sex at the end of it.
Or had he just hired me as his therapist?
One thing lead to another and I soon found myself kneeling beneath him, barreling down the home stretch, the finishing line in sight.
Gentlemen, as you stand above us, pummelling the air with your dick, balls flapping in the wind, you might not like to hear this:
Our minds wander.
Where’s good to eat in the CBD?
I wonder if Lena replied to my email.
Dude, did you genuinely attempt a facial on your wedding night?
You seem like the type.
…Hold on, breakthrough!
Some men are polite enough to warn before they ejaculate.
This man was not.
He took it for granted that I could ably predict the rapid-fire docking of his balls’ white hot contents.
Thank God a girl learns to distinguish the fateful signs:
The increasingly violent fapping, the stiffening of the feet, the feeling of helplessness as his dick proceeds to annex his brain.
As I closed my eyes and waited for the inevitable, I — and the rest of the fourth floor — heard the primal groans. His body contorted with a judder, I flipped my hair back and clutched at my breasts.
Where was the cum? Where was it?
Straight over my head.
My first concern?
You dirty fucking man-slut, did you just cum in my hair? Oh my fucking god.
I pawed through my blonde mane in a hurry: dishevelled but untarnished.
Good, I’m thinking, we can still be civil.
Big Fish had missed the target. Completely. Not even a dribble had found my waiting chin.
I deviated from the script for a brief moment to admire the sheer inaccuracy of this man.
His body spent and wilting in to my arms, onions onions twelve o’clock, I pulled us both back on to the bed.
Onions looked deflated. He had the wince of a man racked with guilt, exhaustion, and a $500 deficit to explain to his wife.
We gazed down at the pile of clothes. And there it was.
What a fucking mess.
His glistening suit jacket. Caked to the nines in strands of thick, evanescent spunk.
Well, that wasn’t on the menu…
A part of me felt guilt.
I take great pride in not endangering the nefarious antics of my clients, and this gent deserved the same luxury, regardless of his mild insanity.
But to send a man off to an important conference, a keynote no less, with his own sperm splattered across his suit — now that’s unprofessional.
Onions hauled himself from the silk sheets, limp dick in one hand, cell phone in the other.
He plucked the tainted jacket off the floor and held it up to the light.
I took one final glimpse at his scorched earth buttocks, those purple massacred mounds, and I was on my way.
That was the last I ever saw of Big Fish, but I do sometimes wonder if our session made his keynote any easier. Or was he forced to limp on stage?
A man forced to check out, broken and battered, quite literally, with cum on his hands.
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