This part, part 7, continues my reminiscences, of my sexual journey at the point of my first overseas deployment with the UK armed forces. Some, but not a tremendous amount of sexual content in this part, hence I’ve tagged it as ‘non-erotic’, to temper expectations. So if that’s not for you I understand, but it sets the scene for what’s to come in subsequent parts, if I’m spared that long.
As an old man, in my seventies, who has been given the nod by my doctors that my days are numbered, I spend a lot of time looking back at my life. Recalling what I have done and achieved. Regretting the things I should have done and did not do. I do not suppose for a moment this is unusual, but when it happens to you, it takes it out of you, initially at least.
I never planned on these thoughts going public. It was just a few scrappy notes for my own consumption. The ramblings of an old man, as it were. But one of the individuals concerned saw those notes. They thought that others may identify with some of the situations and suggested I tidy them up into a story and post them on your forum.
This part, part 7, continues my reminiscences, of my sexual journey at the point of my first overseas deployment with the UK armed forces. Some, but not a tremendous amount of sexual content in this part, hence I’ve tagged it as ‘non-erotic’, to temper expectations. So if that’s not for you I understand, but it sets the scene for what’s to come in subsequent parts, if I’m spared that long.
If you are expecting beginning to end, dirty, perverted sex, it is not for you, you don’t have to read it. Bug out now…no hard feelings. And I do not profess to be a literary genius; so, if my writing style and grammar offend you, you know where the ‘close’ button is!
Part 7 – Whoring Around.
If you’ve reached this point via Part 6, you’ll be aware that at the close of that story, I had just completed my UK armed forces initial technical training. As an 18-year old junior electronics engineer, I was about to be deployed to my first operational unit, on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus.
It was November 1974 when I arrived, on a military transport aircraft, via the airbase at Akrotiri. At that time of year Cyprus is still relatively dry and warm, with temperatures at or just below 70-degrees; a vast change from the cold, damp UK I’d left behind.
I was met at the air terminal by my new Senior, to discover I had been allocated to work at one of the numerous signals intelligence sites on the Island. Mine was located within the Western Sovereign Base Area, close to the city of Limassol, where I should expect to serve for the next three years. With my kit dumped in the back of a Land-rover, I was transported to my Accommodation. When I was shown my pit space, my jaw hit the floor. It was indeed an absolute pit! (Though in retrospect, it was luxury when compared to some of those I would have to contend with, when deployed in active conflict zones in later years.)
Many will recall, that earlier in 1974, Turkey had invaded and occupied most of Northern Cyprus; an occupation which persists to this day. By the time I arrived, hostilities had ceased, but the fallout was still very much being felt. Mainly of course by the Cypriot population, many of whom were internally displaced, and had lost their homes, businesses, vehicles and most of their possessions!
Normally, there were many UK service families stationed on the Island. Post-invasion however, the unstable political position, and the potential for further armed conflict between the two ethnic Cypriot populations (Greek and Turkish), saw many family groups repatriated to the UK, to be replaced with single, mainly men. What this meant was that there were about four times more ‘singles’, than there was accommodation for.
As a result, my bed was located in a room, designed for six people, but with around 24-25 bodies crammed in there. Bunks were stacked three high in places, a mountaineering task to get in, being very careful to avoid the spinning ceiling fans that were bravely trying to cool the sultry air, that had a distinct odour of sweaty bodies. Worse, I was told that for the moment, we were ‘hot bunking’; meaning when I was on shift, someone else slept in the bed, and vice versa.
There was no wardrobe space for anyone, so clothes were hung wherever there was somewhere to hang them, and most possessions had to stay in kitbags, many of which had to be stacked in corridors, to give occupants room to move around. I was told I was ‘lucky’. Some were still living in tents, pitched on sports fields. The very luckiest, those with their own offices, slept there. In short, any thoughts of bringing female company ‘home’ was a total non-starter.
Speaking of female company; it was virtually non-existent. Oh, there were a few servicewomen (apparently their block was much more civilised, but it was along time until I found that out for myself!), but the ratio of men to women was huge, and those girls who did date were long since spoken for. Apart from when required to leave the base for work reasons, we were confined to barracks. Even if we could mix socially with the ‘locals’, the majority of Cypriot girls were not known for being sexually available. So basically, calling anyone a ‘wanker’ at that time was not an insult, it was a statement of fact. We were all big, big wankers, for now!
A positive though, was the fact that being overseas, we got extra pay. Booze and cigarettes were duty free, albeit rationed, and the local beer, wine and brandy was cheap and plentiful. So we could mostly anaesthetise ourselves into ignoring our shit living conditions, when off duty.
Winter became spring. I turned nineteen, and slowly, very slowly, things started to normalise. Some of the restrictions on our movements began to be lifted. We were allowed off base, during the day only at first, then in the evening, though strict curfews were in place, requiring us to be back on base by, first 22:00, then 23:00 and eventually, by midnight, enforced by the military police. This meant we could venture into the ‘bright lights and fleshpots’ of Limassol town. It’s a sprawling metropolis now, but was relatively small and compact back then.
The bar and club owners, who had struggled for months, were overjoyed to have us back in circulation. They tried all sorts to attract us into their establishments. Happy hours, two-for-one drinks nights, live bands (some good and went on to be quite well known actually). But not surprisingly, the most attractive incentive, came from those bars that provided strippers.
Most of the ‘girls’ were foreign. Many from the Middle East or Eastern Europe, just out to make a bit of cash. I think it’s fair to say they were quite exploited. Generally once they had completed their activities on stage, they were expected to mix with the punters, who in turn were expected to buy them, probably fake, drinks at extortionate prices. The proceeds of course, mainly went to the bar owners not the girls themselves. But we were well paid, and it was nice to have female company, even if just to ogle and chat to. There were accounts of furtive handjobs, blowjobs and even actual fucking, in return for an appropriate ‘tip’. I couldn’t confirm these rumours were true, at first!
One night in mid summer, with the weather now dry and sultry, temperatures in the high 80 to 90 degrees, a colleague, Chris, and I had gone into town early evening, after spending our day off at the beach. We ate our fill at one of the many popular kebab houses, which then included all the Kokenelli (a really rough red wine) you could drink. After the meal, we hit several of the bars and clubs, eventually ending up at our favourite strip bar, grabbing a table at the back of the room, ready to enjoy the show.
We sat through a couple of nonde*********** acts, featuring lone girls gyrating to popular tunes, and stripping down to G-string underwear, before dancing among the crowd, fondling their own breasts and teasing the blokes by moving provocatively near them, but with strictly no contact. It was arousing, especially after months of, virtually enforced celibacy, enough to raise an erection in most of us. At least it did for me. The spectacle was something to have a wank over later perhaps.
Then the ‘main act’ of the night was introduced. ‘For their first season here in Cyprus, all the way from England, the ***** Girls!’ (I’ve got no idea what they were actually called!). But English, eh? Interest piqued. To the strains of Donna Summer’s sultry song, Love to Love you Baby, six hot blonde dancers took to the stage and started their routine. It was by no means Pan’s People or Hot Gossip (IYKYK!), but that didn’t mater. Almost immediately they had shed their light, sheer robes and were naked, apart from tiny thongs.
Quickly, the girls paired up, and as Donna moaned and groaned to the beat, they embraced, rubbed their tits together, fondled arses and inner thighs, and basically dry humped each other, also in time to the music. As the song reached its climax, so did the girls, simulated I have to assume. Rubbing their thong clad mounds against each other, and stroking the other’s breasts, they all “orgasmed” simultaneously, before collapsing in each others arms.
I for one, was now sporting a raging hard on, requiring careful adjustment to maintain trouser comfort. Stunned silence in the audience quickly became rousing applause, as the dancers grabbed their robes and hurried off stage, to the back rooms of the bar.
Chris and I discussed the act, marvelling at how explicit it was (it was later deemed to be too much so, even by lax Cypriot standards, and had to be toned down somewhat.) As we chatted, and as was required of them, the six girls, now dressed, albeit quite sexily, appeared from the rear of the bar. To our surprise, two of them made a beeline for our table (I guess we looked harmless enough to them among the rough looking crowd) and asked if we ‘wanted company’, to which we obviously said yes. They introduced themselves as Pip and Pat (pseudonyms, as I have absolutely no idea of their actual names now!) Pip sat next to Chris and Pat next to me! Within seconds, a waiter appeared from nowhere, and we parted with a King’s ransom for the mandatory drinks!
The pair were virtual clones of each other. Early to mid twenties, blonde (probably wigs), medium height, lithe fit dancers figures, including large, though not massive, firm looking breasts. Pat was obviously braless under her tight halter neck top, as her nipples were prominent and proudly on display. Having seen them both virtually naked just a few minutes previously, it was hard not to visualise them like that now. I’ve never been great at the ‘chat up’, and my lecherous thoughts stymied me even more than usual, this was not working out well!
Fortunately though, Chris had the gift of the gab, broke the ice and led the conversation. Where were they from in England?, Geordies it turned out. How long had they been here? How long were they staying? What made them come to Cyprus (the money!) Out of politeness, they asked about us too, but in truth they didn’t care. They were really only there because they had to be.
Another wallet emptying round of drinks was bought, as Chris desperately tried to engage Pip, but she was being quite sullen. After a bit of probing, she admitted she was not at all happy with her situation. She didn’t mind the stripping, she was used to that. But she hadn’t realised she’d be expected, as she put it, to ‘whore herself’ on the bar floor. She wanted to go home to Newcastle, but knew that would leave her colleagues in a difficult position as contracts had been signed, so she was sticking it out for their benefit.
Pat, on the other hand, was quite buoyant. The money was good. They would be doing stints in several locations (Nicosia, Paphos and Larnaca) in addition to Limassol, so getting a good look around the country. The beaches were great, as was the nightlife on their days off; and she could earn good “tips”. My ears pricked at that word.
With the earlier wine and the subsequent bar crawl, I was getting quite pissed by then and before I knew it I’d blurted something stupid like “Tips, what for your dancing?”. Without turning a hair, Pat replied, “Sort of. Would you like to tip me?”. I nodded, yes. Without further hesitation, she stood and headed for the front door of the bar, beckoning me to follow, which I did. So the accounts were true!
Pat led me round to the back of the bar and into what appeared to be a storage room, crammed full with spare tables, chairs and other bar paraphernalia. Looking back, I was being insanely stupid. I could easily have been robbed, beaten or worse. But the alcohol had numbed most of my brain, and the tiny remaining sober part was now centred in my cock anyway! I got lucky; in more ways than one. A “tip” was negotiated. My wallet was well depleted by then, so the ‘dancing’ she would do was to be quite limited.
Pat manoeuvred me to sit on one of the spare chairs, before unbuttoning and unzipping my trousers. I lifted my arse and dropped them and my underwear to my ankles. In the cramped space, Pat worked herself to kneel between my knees and took me in hand. I was already full erect and leaking, so she slowly started to work my foreskin up and down, spreading my natural lubricant over my engorged glans.
As she worked on my cock, Pat reached behind her neck with her other hand, undid the tie of her halter and freed her stiff nippled tits for me again. I reached out to caress her, but she brushed my hand away. I could look, but not touch. I guess I hadn’t ‘tipped’ enough for that.
I’d been so long without a woman’s touch, I knew I would probably not last too long. Had I been completely sober, I would probably have shot my load already. But the booze was numbing my senses a bit, and I was determined to hold off as long as possible to get my money’s worth! But after a few minutes of her wanking me, getting steadily faster and faster, I felt my orgasm was imminent. I suppose really I should have warned Pat, but in my brain fog, it never occurred to me. I held back, and held back, until I could no longer control what was happening, and then ejaculated explosively. My first shot hit her on the chin, causing her to lift and turn her head away. Her position and the restricted space though, prevented her from moving away and my remaining spurts landed on her bare chest and tits.
Pat was not best pleased with me for cuming on her like that, and issued a curt rebuke; though didn’t make a major issue of it. She stood and found a bundle of cloth napkins on a shelf behind her and proceeded to use a couple to wipe my cum from her breasts, in doing so, teasingly putting on another show of her assets for me, before she scooped them back into her top, tied it, and headed for the door. In retrospect, I wondered why she didn’t just aim my cock away from her after that first spurt. Perhaps he didn’t mind the pearl necklace as much as she’d said she did after all!
I sat awhile, recovering from the handjob. The first non-self induced orgasm I’d had in months. I felt chilled out and de-stressed. I must have dozed off for a while, as I woke with a start, trousers and pants still round my ankles. Looking at my watch, I realised I would soon be breaking curfew, so hurriedly sorted myself out and went back into the bar. The show was over and it was nearly empty by then. Chris was nowhere to be seen. When I spoke with him the following day, he told me he had walked Pip back to the girls’ digs, hoping to get it on with her, but she’d blown him off when they got there. Not knowing where I was he’d made his own way back to barracks.
I managed to get a taxi back myself, draining the last of my cash from my wallet. It would be a lean couple of weeks ahead, until payday. On the ride home, I reflected on the evening’s events. It was starting to dawn on me that I had just paid for a sexual favour. Pat, as Pip had so succinctly put it, was indeed “whoring herself”, as well as stripping for money. And I’m certain if I’d had the funds with me, it could have been more than a hand job. Basically, she was a prostitute, even if only a part time one.
Should I feel guilty? Why should I? Nobody was forced to do anything. We were consenting adults. There was no real solicitation. A simple mutually agreeable deal was struck, and nobody got hurt! Though in the cold, sober light of the next day, I told myself I would not be doing that again. I’d put myself in a very risky situation, that could have had serious consequences. No, no more prostitutes for me. That promise didn’t last long.
The long hot summer, became an equally balmy autumn, and we continued to work hard, and play harder. The political division of the island had become tolerated, but would never be fully accepted. The risk of further hostilities had all but disappeared, and our lives started to ease further. Curfews were dropped, meaning we were free to come and go as we pleased, with a few exceptions (we definitely could not cross the ‘Green Line’ into Turkish occupied territory.) Also, accompanied posts were reintroduced, and with families returning, the demands on single accommodation started to ease. We were still overcrowded, but not as massively so as when I arrived. It also meant ‘service brats’ appeared; the teenage sons and daughters of married servicemen, but more of that later.
With the curfews lifted, the night clubs in town also extended their opening hours. It was mostly the British servicemen, and a few women, that frequented them. They tried so hard to attract more female clientele, but in the main, they were just ‘after hours’ drinking dens for us. After the NAAFI and unit bars closed, we’d pile into taxis and head for town. We still occasionally frequented the strip bars, but Pip and Pat’s troupe had long since finished their run and we’re probably plying their trade back in the UK by now, or elsewhere in the world perhaps.
Late one Friday night, having spent some time in the normal haunts, three of us were sat in the strip bar nursing our drinks. The acts had finished for the night, and hadn’t been that special anyway. We were trying to decide where to go next, when out of the blue Phil, one of my drinking partners suggested, “Why don’t we see what it’s like in The Square.”
Phil was referring to Heroes Square, which was actually strictly off limits to us for a couple of reasons. Firstly, as a security risk, because of its association with EOKA, the Cypriot nationalist organisation of the 1950’s, that ‘fought’ against British rule, leading to Cyprus’s independence in 1962; especially as members of the reborn EOKA-B were known to frequent The Square. Secondly, and probably more relevant, The Square was the heart of the ‘red light district’ of Limassol, famed for its seedy nightlife, drug dealers and sex workers.
There were reputed to be some ‘hot’ cabaret shows to be found (they used to be family shows, but more recently had become ‘adults only’.) Off limits or not, after a brief discussion about the pros and cons, we decided to go for it, finished our drinks and hailed a taxi. When we asked him to take us to a ‘good’ venue in The Square, he was reluctant at first. He knew we were not really allowed there. If he was ‘caught’ by the MPs taking us there he could be blacklisted from operating on the SBA, a huge financial loss to him. But the promise of a ‘very good’ tip convinced him, and it was game on.
As requested, he dropped us at a cabaret bar. I do not recall for certain, but it was probably the, infamous, Kit Kat Club. We paid our cover charge and found an empty table and ordered a round of, expensive, drinks. Instantly, the bar girls descended on us, like flies on shit. We weren’t playing that game just now though, and after much verbal sparring, they eventually gave up on us, leaving us to watch the show in peace.
The acts were ‘okay’. A few vocalists, singing a mix of Greek and popular English language songs. And there were of course the obligatory strippers and topless dancers. To be honest, I don’t know what we’d expected, but they were no more sexual than were the girls in our ‘normal’ strip joint. True, a couple went full nude, which only left us wanting more, but we knew these girls were totally untouchable!
Soon, even the seemingly endless parade of bare tits and fannies got boring, and the drinks were a ripoff, so we decided to get out of there and see what else we could find. We mooched around The Square, passed the famous Rialto Theatre and delved into the side streets, where the working girls operated, unusually yellow lights, showing availability here, not red. We were ‘tempted in’ at several addresses, but walked on, finding a pavement bar, where we all ordered a bottle of Keo beer. As we sat drinking them, we were approached by numerous pimps and drug dealers, trying to part us from our money. All were declined, until one wasn’t.
We were approached by a middle aged Cypriot man, who offered to take us to “…very nice, very clean girls.” Max, the third member of the group unexpectedly exclaimed “Fuck it guys. This is what we came here for, isn’t it. To get laid. Who’s in?” Phil and I looked at each other questioningly. I was gobsmacked at the suggestion, but he shrugged his shoulders and nodded to Max, OK. Remembering my experience with Pat, I was not comfortable with the thought of paying for it again, so remained silent. But when the other two rose to follow the pimp, I was even less comfortable with idea of remaining on my own in that dodgy area, so had little choice but to follow them.
The pimp led us back into the main square, then down another side street, to the door of, what looked like, a private residence. He opened the door and took us down a short hallway, past three or four side doors, into a bare room, with half a dozen plastic chairs, and a coffee table, sporting several overflowing ashtrays. The waiting room? He disappeared back the way we came, stopping at one of the side doors for a quick, rapid fire conversation in Greek, before exiting the building.
Oh shit! I was in a trap, in a brothel. How was I going to get out of this. I tried to raise my objections with Max and Phil. Offered a few lame excuses. Even tried to claim poverty, only having enough money left to get back to barracks; which backfired immediately, as they both stuffed a ‘sub’ in my hands to pay the dues. Moments later, one of the side doors opened and two women came out, I couldn’t describe them now if my life depended on it. A few pleasantries were exchanged, before they took Max and Phil, who had stood to greet them, by the hand and led them to their rooms. I’d found myself left alone after all. But not for long.
After a couple more minutes, another door opened, and my ‘Lady’ came to find me. I could, probably should, have just paid her off and left, but some unknown force held me there. It was most likely my cock leading the way. She smiled at me, and the trap was sprung. I was going nowhere right then.
Whatever my pre-conceptions of what a working girl should look like, I’m not sure. Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, she was not. In fact she was the very antithesis. She was tiny, barely 5-feet in her bare feet, which she was. Lady had a Typical Mediterranean appearance, with an olive coloured complexion, dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and almost black hair, worn loose just below her shoulders. Her trim waist topped womanly hips, on which hung a loose thigh length skirt, from which emerged shapely, but short legs. But it was above the waist where my eyes were riveted. A plain, short sleeve, button through blouse, which was tucked into the waistband of the skirt, was struggling to contain her tits. Absolutely huge tits! They bulged over the top of a lacy white bra, forming a valley in which a bloke could die a happy man.
Both the situation and the sight of her breasts had rendered me speechless. No, worse than that, I was absolutely terrified. She spoke to me once, twice. I didn’t register her words. She sensed my fear and hesitation, smiled and gently took my hand in hers. “It’s okay”, she mewed, “We can do this. We can do this together. It not a problem.” I’m not sure of her nationality, but she spoke perfect, if accented English. With a gentle tug, she directed me towards her room. Silently, I allowed her to do so.
Again, I don’t quite know what I was expecting, but it was not what I saw. Sure, the room was spartanly furnished, but it looked and smelled clean. A couple of easy chairs, stood either side of a small chest of drawers, and against the wall opposite the door the, I guess, obligatory double bed. The bed was tidily made and the bedding looked clean and fresh. If you find yourself about to fuck a prostitute, I can imagine far worse places to find yourself in.
The business side of the event was got out of the way immediately, and my money was spirited away before I realised it had gone. I don’t remember the exact size of the ‘tip’, but I do recall it was ridiculously little, considering. That dealt with, the pleasure side of the event started. There was to be no preamble. Time is money I suppose. I was shaking like a leaf when Lady stepped in front of me. She knew I was still very nervous, and as she started to undress me, she whispered soothing words to me. Again, I didn’t really take in the words, but the sound of her voice was starting to relax me.
In moments, I was naked and feeling quite exposed, with my, by now, rampant cock sticking out in front of me. After draping my clothes over one of the chairs, Lady moved in close to me, placed a hand on my shoulder and with the other, took a grip on my throbbing penis, making me shudder. Working on pure instinct and muscle memory, I lent in towards her, going for a kiss, earning me another sharp rebuke, “No kissing!” A rookie error, and I was suitably chastised, but in compensation, Lady slowly started to rub my cock, working the foreskin back and forth.
After just a few moments of wanking my cock, Lady jockeyed me towards the bed and told me to lie back and enjoy! She shed her blouse, skirt and knickers. She left the bra on, which disappointed me immensely. She knelt on the bed to my right and again gave my dick a few more strokes with her hand, just to make sure it was still working. No fears there, it was hard and proud, despite my internal turmoil. It knew what it wanted, I was though, still quite conflicted. But my dick won in the end.
Leaning across me, momentarily pressing her boobs firmly onto my groin, Lady retrieved a rubber and a tube of lubricating jelly from the night stand. I reached for the prophylactic, but she brushed my hand away, opened the foil packet, and proceeded to roll the rubber down the length of my rigid cock. I guessed she wanted to make sure it was properly in place personally, for her own sake. I didn’t mind though. I have always found it quite stimulating when a woman does that for me. Once it was in place, she squeezed a generous portion of lube onto my rubber clad cock, and liberally spread it around. Another wonderful sensation. When happy with her efforts, she lifted one foot, placed it flat and massaged the residue of the jelly over her vulva.
Lady’s semi squatting position spread her outer lips, affording me an uninterrupted view of her labia and vaginal opening, in all its glory. Against the trend of the day, her dark pubic hair was cropped short above her cleft, and ended just above the top of her valley, with the lips below completely shaved. Her pink interior, now liberally smeared with lubricant, shone invitingly, beckoning me in.
I made to sit up, intending for us to change positions. For me to get above her and lay her back on the bed, so I could enter her. Again Lady blocked my move. Instead she lifted her right leg across my thighs, straddling me. She shuffled up my body on her knees, until her slippery fanny was aligned with my equally slippery sheathed cock.
There were to be no preliminaries. No foreplay. Just straight to what I’d paid for. Reaching a hand down between our lower bodies, Lady grasped my inflamed member, an guided its head to her opening, lodging it firmly just inside her. Then, moving both her hands to my shoulders, and in one fluid movement, she sank down, taking my length ( not that it’s that long!) into her. After a few exploratory wiggles, to ensure we were properly connected, she paused, just for a few beats of my thumping heart, then she started to fuck me.
I half expected her to go hell for leather, to pound the shit of out me, to make me cum as quickly as possible, to get it over with and get me out. And I was under no illusions that there was going to be any orgasms in that bed that night, other than mine, which didn’t feel far away at that moment. But credit where credit is due. Instead, Lady started slowly and sensually. Rolling her pelvis back and forth. Pumping me gently in and out of her slick pussy.
After a few moments of this, whether due to the earlier alcohol, my lingering unease of the taboo nature of this act or her skill ,I don’t know, but the imminent need to cum subsided. Reaching my hands under her outstretched arms, I grasped her upper back for purchase, and started to match her movements with my own, increasing the length and depth of my penetration.
As we rocked in unison, my hands shifted and I felt her bra strap. Again, acting on impulse, I quickly unfastened the hooks, releasing the tension on the straining material. Lady froze! Oh, fuck! Had I just committed another cardinal sin? Were tits a no go area too? Had I just ended the liaison with some unknown breach of contract. I waited with bated breath to see what was going to happen next.
I don’t think she’d intended to bare her breasts, but I had unintentionally forced the issue. Perhaps she was again giving me some latitude for being a ‘whorehouse virgin’, or perhaps I was imagining barriers that didn’t really exist. Without the expected rebuke (I was getting used those by now anyway), Lady sat full upright on my lap and shucked off the bra completely. Her huge tits were now there for my unimpeded viewing pleasure. They were magnificent. Large, plump and, drooping slightly forward. I raised my hands towards them, but a look from her was enough to tell me ‘No’, so I would have to forever imagine them to be heavy and pliable to my touch. Oh well!
The tense moment over, I started to rock my hips slowly again, to which lady responded, beginning to ride me from above. We soon got back into a mutual rhythm and gradually upped the pace. Now, with the added vision of those gorgeous breasts, bouncing in time to our thrusts, my sap quickly began to rise again. Lady must have sensed when I was getting close, because she sealed the deal by reaching behind herself and located and started to massage my strained balls with her hand. That was the final straw. Ending months and months of pent up frustration, I came hard, in a series of gigantic spurts, filling the rubber with my seed. The relief was awesome, and I think I yelled out my satisfaction quite loudly.
Job done, Lady disengaged herself from my, still hard but slowly wilting penis, climbed off me, and slid under the rumpled bedsheets to cover her nudity. I needed a few minutes to catch my breath, but when I’d done so, I rolled onto my side facing Lady. She was just laying there, staring at the ceiling in silence. When I moved closer and looked directly down at her, she still avoided eye contact with me.
I suddenly realised that my time was over, I was now just outstaying my welcome. Without saying anything, I got off the bed and went to retrieve my clothes. I took some tissues from a box on the top of the drawers, removed and wrapped the used rubber, which went in the bin…empty bin I noted for some strange reason. After cleaning myself up a bit with more tissues, I then dressed ready to leave.
I had no idea what the protocol was for this type of parting. So as I headed for the door I blurted out how much I’d enjoyed the experience, thanked her and wished her a good night. As the words left my mouth, I realised how lame they sounded, but actually, they raised a bit of a smile from Lady, and a barely audible “Goodbye, good luck.” As I exited back to the waiting area, I glanced at my watch, surprised to see that the whole affair had lasted about 40-minutes. Max and Phil were both already there waiting for me. I felt quite smug that it seemed I’d out lasted both of them in bed.
We made our way back into the main square, hoping to find a taxi, but it was by then around 2 or 3 am, and although some places were still open, the footfall had diminished considerably. After waiting around for about twenty minutes or so, we’d drawn a blank on the taxi. We decided to head for the seafront, about a 10-15 minute walk, where a few diehard café owners stayed open till dawn, to catch the ‘dawn patrollers’ from the nightclubs. Here you are usually also guaranteed getting a cab, which we did.
We rode home in relative silence, buried in our own thoughts. We’d all fucked a prostitute that night. And what’s more, we all knew each other had done so too. I was certainly a bit embarrassed that they knew that, and I guessed that they were too. As I had after Pat, I reflected on what had happened. I hadn’t set out to go whoring that night, it just happened. I could have stepped away at any point, but I didn’t. I should have felt bad for letting myself stoop to that level, purely for sex; but fuck it! I had satisfied a growing need for sexual release. Again I resolved not to go there again. This time I meant it and stuck to it.
I spent a tense couple of weeks, waiting for the itching or sores to appear, but nothing happened. I’d got away with it. The pimp had been right when he described the girls as “…very clean”. And as far as I was concerned, Lady at least was also a “Very nice girl…” I should want to forget all about that ‘notch on my bedpost’. To erase it from my memory for ever. But I never will!