Another punter was coming towards me. I could tell. His collar turned up even though it wasn’t too cold and he looked as guilty as hell, as if his wife might turn up at any moment. I allowed a smile to myself, if his wife ever walked this street at this time of night then he wouldn’t be looking for a "bit extra" from me or one of my sisters. Smiling at the punters and their ridiculous guilt trips makes them think I am smiling FOR them rather than AT them. How dumb!
He sounded nervous when he spoke, there was a quake in his voice and he was talking low as we agreed terms. I teased him by pretending to be slightly deaf and asking him to speak louder, so that others could overhear. I can be such a bitch at times! He agreed my price and I showed him to my spot - part way up an alley behind some bins. That way we are out of sight of passers-by who might casually glance our way. If I make it too hard for them, the poor things can’t get it up and I lose my money – well unless I make a scene and that’s bad for business.
I told him “no kissing”. Lots of them think that this is like romance, or something, and that I need to be “warmed up”. The only warming up I need is from a cup of coffee and a seat by the heater in ‘Bob’s Diner’ once I get the money: ideally with a shot of something extra in the coffee on good days.
I dropped the little gardening pad that I use to kneel on and knelt down in front of him. It was then, as I parted his mac and jacket that I noticed he had a very nice suit on, and that Mac wasn’t from Debenhams’s either – they both looked – yes, I saw the labels – YSL. Not bad, maybe a little extra care with this guy and he might want to come back for more. So I paused as I thought, then, with a little more seductiveness than usual, I pressed my face into his groin and inhaled so he could feel and hear me. I felt him relax and lean back against the wall. I thought of the dirty brickwork on that nice mac and his wife saying “What have you been doing with your coat?” But that’s his problem, not mine.
Slowly I drew the zip down. He gasped slightly. His manhood bulged in his shorts – trying to escape the confines of those expensive trousers. I rolled down his shorts which were probably only M&S, but nice all the same, and then I helped him to freedom, flicking it up. I stopped and watched. I love this bit where the manhood hits the cold air and dithers a little before deciding that – “yes freedom is great”, it seems to say, “Go for it”. That’s also when I get a good first impression of him: how clean, smelly, shaved or unshaved is he. This guy was clean, though he hadn’t showered just before coming out to see me, but cleaner than a lot of the guys I get: Blimey! I think some of them come to me for their weekly wash – talk about cheese! Thank goodness for mouth-wash! But there was none of that here – just man-smell which is good. Through the cold air I could feel the heat coming from him and yes – he was unshaven. A good sign to me. Many of those who shave their privates think they are some special gift to womankind, some sort of porn star, but they never are. At least it’s nice not to get pubes stuck between my teeth or in my throat – so I shouldn't complain too much.
I nuzzled him to get the feel of his response – no, he's not cut, I like the foreskin – the crinkly skin was drawing back fast and had a few drops of precum glistening in what little street light that there was. I licked. Mmm not bad – he keeps fit, doesn’t eat too much salt and doesn’t smoke. As a nonsmoker myself, I hate the taste of nicotine. But it’s a living - of sorts!
I pushed the skin back and his toad stool glistened. Immediately new life throbbed into his shaft and I felt it take on a sudden growth spurt. His skin slid easily over the core hardness, then I pushed back slowly twisting his skin a little. My other hand groped under his crotch to his arse. His buttocks tightened and he purred a man-purr as I drew his shaft up, bending it slightly with my thumb, pausing while my thumb massaged the bottom of his tip – you know, that sexy spot in that little cleft? Then I licked him once, circled his tip with my tongue a couple of times and, as he moaned his appreciation, I pulled him into my mouth: just the tip. Holding his glans between my teeth, I attacked him with my tongue, rubbing and circling while my left index finger increased the pressure on his ass and my right hand pumped his shaft at the same time.
Once he started to bend forward and his hands touched my head, I knew it was time to take him deeper. Flattening my tongue, his shaft slid into me by stages, in and out – in a bit more and out – until he was at my throat. I’ve learned to suppress my gag reflex, so it’s better for the punter. He went as far as he could – my nose and upper lip being tickled by his pubes. He wasn’t big or thick in the pornographic sense, but he was, shall we say, adequate, just over 15cm would be my guess. My spit filled my mouth and dribbled out. Squelching noises got louder as did his moans. A couple of times I had to take him out while I gasped for air, each time he went back in my mouth his grip on my hair tightened and he started pumping my mouth for all it was worth. With that kind of shaking I can do nothing, he does all of the action himself. As he stiffened and his manhood went into that final tension before squirting, I readied myself for the flood soon to shoot down my throat. It came when he did, but the amount! I have had full loads in my mouth before, but this was the biggest. Some of it shot right down my throat, some backed up in my mouth and oozed out. Shit where did it come from? He must have abstained for a long time. I felt sorry for him because he seemed a nice guy as far as they go and he must have been bursting. But not now, unfortunately, my gag reflex finally kicked in with the flood in my throat and I had to let him go – spitting out and coughing it out of my throat before I could breathe again. Strings of his love fluid dripped from my chin and smeared around my lips. Damn – my top was new that day. Oops! – some of it dripped onto his posh pants, too. Oh well, maybe he could tell his wife that he spilled some ice-cream or maybe get them to the cleaners before she sees them.
It didn’t seem to faze him too much – he was oblivious. Leaning back, shoulders against the wall, head tilted and looking up as he gasped; then started to laugh quietly and purr to himself. I knew then that he was a happy bunny.
Without another word, he zipped himself up as I cleaned my mouth and took a gargle with mouthwash. He thanked me several times and gave me an extra tenner as a tip before walking off back to the street and his regular life. Yeah, I knew he was a good guy from the start. “Come again soon,” I shouted at his back – joking but meaning it: all he did was to wave his left hand without looking back.
That was some time ago, now and I haven't seen him again but I do think of him often. Funny how some people make a lasting impression. I can’t help but wonder – does he remember me? Probably not. I was just some nameless whore and a bit of excitement in a back alley. But I gave him that memory just as he gave me his. That's something personal and intimate between the two of us - even if he doesn't know it.
“The Punter”
Erotic Fiction
by Moll