Hello, gonewildstories. I'm a professional escort, and I've started writing down some of my experiences on my blog (sellsexbuybooks.com). I hope it's okay to plug the blog here; I'm posting the entire text of the story, so no need to click if you don't want to.
He was an older guy. I don’t ask how old, of course, but his hair was grey and his skin had the particular texture of age, smooth and soft but without the elasticity of youth. I’ve gotten to like that texture, the slide and give of it, the way it feels against my fingers and tongue and body.
This was our first meeting, but there was no hesitation or shyness to him. We were naked and kissing deeply within ten minutes of his arrival, him seated on the bed, me standing between his legs. I slid down to suck him and found a long, thin cock with a downwards curve and a round, bulbous head. I could slide it down my throat and keep it there with the head trapped behind my tonsils, the slenderness of his shaft letting me get almost enough air.
The sounds he made told me that he appreciated my enthusiasm, but long before I had finished my explorations I was on my back with his head between my thighs. Cunnilingus isn’t generally my favorite, much to many people’s surprise, but he managed to press two fingers against the front of my cervix and keep up a fast, firm rhythm on my clit. I could feel myself approaching orgasm only to fall away as he slipped off my clit or got the pressure just a tad wrong, over and over. If he’d been doing it on purpose, it would have been a perfect tease. As it was, I was more interested in feeling that cock in me, so I faked an orgasm.
I like faking orgasms. Giving myself the freedom to shake and flail and grab and moan is always liberating, and there’s a sexual thrill to performing for an audience. I bucked and writhed under his mouth. I hope he still thinks about that sometimes, when he’s getting himself off.
When my counterfeit aftershocks had faded, we both shifted fully onto the bed. I reached over to retrieve a condom–in the drawer next to the Gideon bible, of course–and slid it onto him. He was as hard as he’d been while I was sucking him, as gratifying a response to my performance as applause.
My cunt was wet and twitching with emptiness; I could feel my pulse in my clit. I could’ve cheered when he maneuvered me onto my hands and knees, my favorite position, and lined himself up between my needy lips.
When his cock entered me, I spasmed involuntarily. Somehow, the shape, the angle, everything was perfect. He was deep and hard and right there, pounding against my sweet spot like his life depended on it. I couldn’t resist reaching two fingers down to rub desperately at my clit.
He told me to cum for him, and I was prepared to fake it again, but I thought that maybe, just possibly, I wouldn’t have to. He kept slamming into me, hard and fast; for an older guy, the man had some serious energy.
When that thought crossed my mind, I realized that I didn’t remember his name. I’m awful with names, and we’d just met, after all. The thought was like lightning through me, and I began a silent chant in my head, a counterpoint to my entirely heartfelt moans.
I don’t know his name. I don’t know his name. He’s so deep inside me and I don’t know his name.
The cliches about ocean waves and mountain peaks get repeated because they’re true, but for originality’s sake, let’s say that my orgasm hit me like a snowball to the face on a hot summer’s day, sudden desperately-needed relief that was almost too much to handle. I think my faked orgasm was a more convincing performance, louder and more energetic; the real one made me grit my teeth and grind against my hand and his cock, struggling for breath. He came as I was falling from the crest, and I managed to coax a few more spasms out of myself with that knowledge–He’s cumming inside me and I don’t know his name.
When we’d both thoroughly exhausted ourselves, I reached down to hold the base of the condom with two fingers while he pulled out, and we collapsed beside each other, arms carelessly flung over one another’s torsos.
I could use my calendar and my email records to find out if I wanted to, but as I’m posting this, I still don’t know his name.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/37okn6/hooker_files_in_a_name_mf