My Personal Whore Ch. 02

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For those who read Chapter One of my adventures with the lovely dark-haired Asian lady, thank you for doing so. Here is the second episode where I return to the Pleasure Parlour.

As ever, all constructive comments welcome – including any suggestions how it might develop.

Thank you.

Do enjoy!

*****

A week is a long time.

Never mind politics.

Waiting, ticking off the days.

And nights, hard as hell, recalling.

Picturing her, looking down into her eyes.

Those hands, slim, irresistibly erotic.

And her body.

She knows, I know.

I have to go back.

— — — —

Same time, same bar return.

Same barmaid, same denim-clad arse.

Still nervous but mostly excitement.

The cold beer slipping down a treat.

Draining, time to go, a wave and off.

— — — —

Tried to book her in advance, no avail.

Not their ‘business model’ apparently.

Just turn up on spec, the voice advised.

What if she’s not there, unavailable?

Then what?

Second best or a dignified withdrawal.

Don’t want to think about it.

Besides, she urged me to return.

Didn’t she?

Lingering doubts.

Time to hurry.

— — — —

At least I didn’t trip up the stone steps.

Inside, still musty and unlit.

It wouldn’t be the same if it wasn’t.

A different receptionist, a smile, easing the tension.

Being presented with the matrix.

Eyes flashing around, searching, increasing desperation.

Where is she? Please!

Looking up into the receptionist’s eyes, imploring.

Reverting to the faces, along the row, then the next.

A nightmare.

Asking whether I’m looking for anyone in particular.

Isn’t it obvious?

Blurting out her name, is she here?

A finger extends, getting closer, pointing.

Lifting my hand.

Abject relief.

— bahis firmaları — — —

Transaction concluded, knowing the way.

Number 17, it had to be.

A flickering sconce, failing to dispel the gloom.

Arriving at the door, like going back in time.

Glancing up and down the corridor, not a sound.

A deep breath, then another, a quiet knock.

One, two, three seconds, come on please!

Opening noiselessly, looking ahead.

Same stage, same set.

But the lead character, no sign.

Stepping inside, senses on the alert.

A giggle, turning, seeing the door closing.

“I knew you would come back to your personal whore.”

— — — —

A smile, untold relief and happiness.

Seeing her again.

Stepping aside so she can pass.

I know my place, submission.

Taking in her twin pigtails, black ropes, red ribbons.

Her robe matching the ties, smooth satin.

Flowing back and forth, sensing her black shoes.

Turning at the window, facing.

Eyes shining, bewitched with her beauty.

Those fingertips caressing the lapels.

Losing the power to do anything, even breathe.

Coming closer, sliding those fingers around my neck.

A shudder at her touch.

Sensing her fragrance, intoxicating.

“What do you want your personal whore to do?”

— — — —

Lost for words, speechless, managing a smile.

Running a fingertip down my cheek.

Along my closed lips, slowly.

Opening to invite entrance, tongue tip poised.

Withdraws, smiling.

Like a statue, lost in her perfection.

Stepping back, she reaches for the side-table chair.

Positions it at the end of the bed, returning.

Both hands cupping my face, closing in.

Dropping to my jacket, sliding it off my shoulders.

Lowering it, pooling on the carpet.

The shirt buttons, kaçak iddaa deftly defeated, slipping it off.

Her hands flat on my chest, the sensation beyond belief.

“Come.”

A hand leading me, settling, sitting on my hands.

Eyes following her, picking up the discards, lying on the table.

Standing alongside the bed, facing, her back to the window.

Slipping the tie of her robe.

Hardening by the second, anticipation heightened.

A devastating smile, easing it apart.

Eyes closing, disbelief.

Dressed as a fantasy.

White shirt, tight, buttoned, knotted blue tie.

Grey pleated wrap-around miniskirt, white knee-length socks.

Dismissing the robe, smiling.

Eyes closing again, an image burned forever.

— — — —

A creak sounding, her slender frame on the bed.

Pillows built up, settling back, positioning.

Reminding myself, trying to breathe.

Lips dry, tongue trying it’s best, failing.

Her legs stretched out, touching.

Knees and lower thighs, naked, tanned.

Hands on her skirt, erotic fingers, splayed.

Eyes meeting, prompting a smile.

Imperceptibly, her knees starting to rise, spreading.

The skirt, defending her modesty to the last.

Inner thighs, soft skin exposed.

Unable to breathe now, nor blink, nor move.

Her fingertips on the pleated hem, as are my eyes.

Lifting, revealing, perfectly shaven, lips tight together.

Swallowing quickly, hands inadvertently freed.

Staring, the male gaze all consuming.

“Why don’t you kneel before your personal whore?”

— — — —

Sliding instinctively down, knees on carpet.

Hands flat on the thin duvet, head over them.

Edging forward, eyes focused on hers, shining.

Hitching herself down the bed, approaching.

Black shoes straddling my hands.

Sensing temples perspiring, ignoring.

Sliding kaçak bahis her hands onto inner thighs, widening.

Watching them approaching, transfixed.

Two fingertips of each caressing her folds, teasing.

Gently pulling apart, spreading, perfect pink.

Her clit, erect, proud, wanting more.

Glancing up at her eyes, shining into mine.

“Lick your personal whore’s clit, make her cum.”

— — — —

Words failing, oblivious.

Falling forward, hands sliding underneath.

Approaching, her fingers guiding to the target.

Oh, the fragrance of her arousal, captivating.

A touch, the tip of the tongue, her nub, hard.

Hearing a gasp, starting to lick, up and down, around.

Up and down, around and around, then inside.

Repeating, hearing her moan.

Knowing she is almost there, increasing the pace.

Releases her lips, my own fingertips taking over.

Up and down, around and around, then inside.

Moaning steadily now, getting close.

Up and down, around and around, then inside.

Her back, arching, thrusting herself at my face.

Almost there … just another circuit …

Her scream, suppressed, consider the neighbours.

Utter ecstasy, blissful pleasure.

Slowly relaxing, a smile, contented, sated.

Easing back onto the chair, reaching for the shirt.

Her eyes following me, redressing, donning the jacket.

Standing, looking down at her, apprehensive.

“You’ll come to see your personal whore again, won’t you?”

— — — —

Back home again, can’t recall the journey, dreaming.

Strangely contented, satisfied.

Giving is far better than receiving, every time.

Especially giving pleasure.

Picturing her lying on the bed, the pillows, inviting.

Pigtails caressing shoulders.

Those fingertips, teasing, revealing.

Hearing her scream in my mind for the hundredth time.

It was real, no way was it faked.

She wouldn’t do that to me, would she?

No, she’s my personal whore.

Going to see her again … she asked me to.

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