Prince Charming
“Don’t ever stop being dandy, showing me you're handsome” – Adam Ant
Rainforest orchid wrapped ’round geranium, orange rind and lavender steam, pillowing all my senses as I lay soaking, gently stroking my cock basted in sensual essences. My indolent genital pondering in the water like an Oblomov splayed upon the mattress, no response as I puttied it gently from one side of my hips to the other with one thing in mind, paddling idly through the ripples of my foggy lust with five flippant fingers. She’s at work tonight, working her greasy naked body up against men in off the streets. She’s strumming them by number, making them cum, finishing five minutes under… blob.
I have an appointment booked for me at a bordello called, Bedaubing. After my engrossing dunk, I prepare myself lavishly in the shower, swirling with a deep cleansing shower puff a rich scented wash foaming frothy shell shapes alongside each crescent of my snug buttocks, finishing off with a hardy scuff up the crack. I then scoop the puff either side of my drenched testicles and with my left hand I flatter my dandy cock, dealing out flushes of clumped white bubles to the tumbling water below as they evacuate through the plug holes, as if on the run from some recently committed grime.
Peering southwards towards my cock through the seams of air stitched across a hood of humbling water, I wonder about its personality. If I were to apply one to it, I would say that it were a fallen aristocrat. During those moments when it engages in reveries of past finery, its jacket pulled in tight, its head cocked in blushed dignity, the stories it could tell! Such as the silently composed Indian virgin who, upon being asked if she would like to do ‘doggy,’ replied, “What’s that?” “Y’know, from behind?” and he was all for giving this twenty-one year old beginner a lesson or two. Or the dopey eyed Oboist who, when confronted with the supernatural phallusman strung ‘round the rampart hips before it had donned its defense, sobed, “I don’t want to make babies.” During times when it must return to the field once more, it flexes to the beckoning feminine kiss, flitting in and out of her nest, pothering the pink interior until the white flags of sweet surrender come flapping out. I thought at one stage, after hearing that men often name their penises, of allowing mine to have a feminine gender. Mine could be a Sally; then I could hum, “Ride, Sally, Ride,” during sex. Or Maryanne, and thus it would be known as, “So Long, Maryanne.” This naming process always seemed ridiculous to me. One girl I knew had named her ex-boyfriend’s penis, Arthur, which could sum up images of either Excalibur or a somewhat shaby brown dressing gown.
My cock is what I would call an accordion cock. Not that it can play such jigs as An Jenem Tag or Zorba’s Tanz
…I wanted to trot into her place of her work with elegance and so I slipped on a clean pair of black trousers, and my stiff collared white shirt clasped to my torso by a soft brown velvet jacket. Slotted into my side pocket was Jean-Paul Sartre’s The Age of Reason, which I thought should accompany me because I didn’t know how long I would have to sit in the waiting lounge. I’m a decent sort of guy and was doing this for a worthwhile adventure and not necessarily to ogle at the other staff, but if I did happen to get turned on by glimpsing them I knew my partner would understand, if not encourage a total sensory experience.
I got there at eleven-thirty, half an hour before I knew she would be finishing up. A hive of enticing thoughts trailing from my wafting velvet jacket tails as I swarmed across the dark empty street up to the entrance and beezed the doorbell. I wanted to feel horny. I wanted to sweat; feel the insatiable sting plucked from my swelling lust, yet I could not quite remove myself from the ‘boyfriend coming to pick up girlfriend after work’ role.
“Hello, I’ve got an appointment with Naomi,” said I.
“Sure, come on through; she won’t be long,” a neatly woman replied.
Along a malnourished hallway I scampered aback the cleanly cut shuffler of men’s organs as she dickered smuttering propositions from her nightly dealings of escorting s-extortionists to the in-the-buff-et.
I was prompted to throne in a sagging recliner tucked opposite a z-i-G, ZAg-g-e-d stairway. A browned soggy boned man with glasses was propped up against the service counter, a newspaper tucked under his arm his gaze was fixed at a television screen. A girl walked in; tall, tanned, wearing a black g-string. She greeted the guy and motioned him to accompany her. I peered over my book; I didn’t even see his cock flinch. She clomped up the stairs in her boots, her long legs towing the length of my gaze. Then they were gone and I returned to the suspended diamond of the eternal moment in Jean-Paul’s narrative.
Naomi collected me and led me up the stairs. She was wearing a baby blue laced g-string, a flimsy, sheer baby-blue teddy (braless) and high heels. As we climbed the stairs, I watched her individual buttock cheeks stagger in tow to every high-heeled mounting of the steps, the partially submerged g-string gently flossing between them. We chatted amiably about what I could expect and she asked me what kind of room I wanted: one with a bed or one with a massage table? I chose the bed, as it seemed more intimate.
We dipped into a dimly lit room. Naomi asked me if I wanted the standard service for a client, which was full body massage and hand-relief, or, because I was her partner, did I want a little extra? I chose the latter.
A broad mirror was fitted beside the bed. A few steps led up to a tapered shower in the corner of the room. Behind the bed several bulk boxes of tissues, and towels were laid out.
“Well, you just get in the shower and I’ll get some extra towels.”
So I got naked and flitted behind the flimsy shower curtain to wash myself with the litre bottle of cheap liquid soap of which smell seems to remind me of the toilets in mechanics’ workshops.
Hearing Naomi return, I finished up and stepped out to be handed a towel. I dried myself, talking with her all the while. She told me some stories. “One customer,” she said, “brings his own pantyhose which he pays the girl one-hundred dollars to shit into whilst he watches. Another customer I had,” she went on, “was a taxi driver with an enormous foreskin; it still covered the head of his penis when erect! He liked to cover himself in oil and rub up against the girls. After I’d finished giving him hand-relief there was no cum until I pulled the foreskin all the way back and it all trickled out. Most of the girls here tell their boyfriends that they work at a call-centre. One girl recently allowed her client to give her some hickies. I heard her tell her boyfriend on the ’phone that she had just gotten a heat rash on her neck.”
I stretched out on the bed. Scanning about the room, I noticed an air vent in the ceiling and wondered if anyone had bothered hooking up a camera inside it, and then I thought about the mirror being two-way and behind it, a couch where voyeurs could pay to watch prostitutes servicing clients.
Looking down at my cock, I observed that it was as relaxed as I. Did it smile up at me? I thought it did but, then again, this whole adventure was a spontaneously planned fantasy of mine. She prrrhhhuhsssed a slobering tarn of massage oil at the basin of her ridgeline of dainty fingers, then pitched it all over my chest and cock. Huddling on her haunches beside me, she asked, “Would you like my back facing the mirror so you can see my arse?” I told her that would be nice, and viewed the bulbous bend of her behind pendulate towards its smooth twin in the mirror’s reflection as she scooped her draping breasts across my chest. Both of them glinted with massage oil in the dumb, sagging, yellow light of the room. She moved between my legs and dipped, once more dragging her breasts firmly along my lazing cock, basting my entire front with the pungent oil. I watched, in the mirror, the profile of her thighs, hips, and torso unfolding as she slid further up my body, the newly shaven strip of hair between her legs for a moment glimpsed in succession with the setting upper convexity of her bottom until she had fully extended and had all her weight on me.
Heaving a melodic sigh of satisfaction, we kissed and she promptly told me we only had fifteen minutes, so I should choose how I wanted to orgasm.
I chose oral because I am very fussy about my fellatio and she has been industriously evolving her technique in order to author its paramount issue to effectuate a nonpareil. denouement . She clambered backwards, her head now hovering above my cock, her eyes like two dazzling gyroscopes pivoting along the length of my cock shaft, her hand levering it from my belly and plunging it through the rim of her patulous mouth, her cheeks furrowed and tongue, hidden, ploughing inside. I felt my cock ossifying, enclosed, streaming with saliva, the nerves in the tip fidgeting for those elusive cables which, when sparked together, give way to a gush of pleasure.
My legs cranked wide apart crippled in intensified scintillations of harmonious maybe avalanches of orgasm, then my lust-congested cock spat out a spangle of fertile clustered pearls. She hooped the dribling mess in her mouth and gulped it back. Then surging forward in my retired state of ecstasy, we nestled up close and we kiss-s-s-sed. I tasted the yeasty vestige of cum on her breath.
We showered together; an act of loving not afforded to the regular paying clientele. Naomi (not her real name, for every sex worker is given a pseudonym) and I usually wash each other in the shower at home, gently pawing each other with a soapy shower puff. Sometimes, as she scrubs my legs, she pounces on my cock with her mouth and tones it with a few slappy sucks. We always do this kind of thing after an experience: come together. It is so important at the end of a sensual experience to re-connect solely with one another.
I was transported back to the waiting-room and, after she had cleaned the shower and gotten dressed, Naomi rejoined me and picked up her pay packet. Out on the pavement, we chatted briefly to Kitten, in her comfy tracksuit after-work outfit, before jumping into a borrowed car and heading home, my favourite lyrical owl Mark Sandman singing all the way into the smoky, empty-street sleepiness…
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