An Unlikely Whore

Ed Note: This is a guest post by Abi; it’s from my new favorite blog, An Unlikely Whore. It was originally published here. If you like it, there’s lots more where that came from! This is one of those blogs where I got hooked (thanks WD for the tip!) and had to go back to the beginning and read every single post. It’s interesting to note that Abi has only one photo posted on the entire site – so mysterious!

Whoredom can be very empowering

Nothing is ever set in stone in this industry. Bookings are only bookings once the client has left and my wallet is full. I’ve even taken to not penciling the appointments into my diary until the client is showering. No shows, time wasters, fickle clients.

Yesterday I waited for a text from Mr Game Face. I had told him to confirm as soon as possible, that I might be busy. I’ve learned never to bank on a booking in advance. Clients get caught up with work, their wives stay in, they have a wank and decide I’m no longer needed.

I hadn’t heard from Mr Game Face by 5pm when the phone flashed to life. New contact, a 52 year old wanting roleplay fantasy. Oh do tell darling, you’re in safe hands. What is your fantasy?

I’ve found these things online you see, have you heard of Femme Domme scenarios?

My breath quickened. Femme Domme eh? Don’t mind if I do.

Femme Domme work, not to be confused with the female condom, is all about power. The man submitting to the woman. Loads of cunnilingus, face sitting, pegging. Swoon. My type of shit. I’ve turned lovers in my private life into trembling messes with the use of my strap on.

A virgin arse you say? It was all I could do to not skip merrily home from the office.

As I prettied myself for the appointment Mr Game Face texted. A rather presumptuous text saying he’d be around between 9 and 9.30pm and could I wear something slutty. The inference of just showing up irritated me. The thought of a client just assuming a booking without my explicit agreement angers me. They are all told bluntly to never arrive on my doorstep without confirmation. And really, a short skirt and no panties? What is this? Bad eighties porn?

Sorry sweetie, family emergency, another time perhaps?

Thigh high fish nets, killer patent leather pumps, red ribbon trimmed lingerie. Hair slicked to a sharp bob, enormous lashes, ruby lips. Bolero jacket cinching my waist. Ms Abi looked amazing. I’d fuck her myself given the opportunity.

Mr Femme Domme was instructed to arrive at 6pm sharp with a bottle of white wine for the Goddess. He doesn’t drink but that’s irrelavent to the Goddess. She will sip the wine as he pleasures her. He will enjoy her taste, the plush cavern revealed for him. A sharp heel perched on his shoulder.

He wasn’t what I expected. I had pictured a slick executive type, powerful, longing to hand said power to me for a few hours. To relinquish that control.

Instead a scruffy hippie arrived on a pushbike. A bottle of my favourite New Zealand white in one hand, a bag of passionfruit he’d picked from his garden in the other. He was ugly as sin. Sinewy and scarred. Hung like a horse and an absolute fucking delight.

Over the course of the evening he pampered me with such gusto it was truly incredible. I pranced and posed and played the Domme to perfection. He was in a state of glee as I came repeatedly on his face, urging him to drink me. I was massaged, licked, stroked, kissed. I felt like a Goddess.

A pic of me sporting my BIG strap-on!

Turning my attention to his pleasure I warmed up his arse with a condom clad finger. As I worked his rectum he whispered that he would take all I had to offer. That he hoped to be a better lover after seeing me, and that it would be impossible for anyone to not become a better lover having seen me.

Stopping to gently kiss him and accept the gorgeous compliment I was struck with the absurdity of my life. Here I am, three fingers deep in a man old enough to be my father, building up to fisting him and I’m cooing the words “Really honey, thank you, you are just lovely yourself!”.

He took my fist with merely a grunt and a remark that it stung a little. I massaged his prostate a little, watching his eyes widen. I like to go on top when I’m fucking a man this way. Lay them on their backs, prop them up on a pillow and have my way with them. I enjoy watching their faces twist with pleasure and pain.

Stepping into my strap-on and lubricating it I told him to relax into me. Push back. He obeyed and the experience was intensely intimate. His legs over my shoulder, me fucking him like a man. I pushed myself onto him, rubbing my breasts on his cock.

I’ve, I’ve …. I’ve got to work to come this way don’t I? Is this what it’s like for women? 

He pulled at my back, gripping me closely, rubbing himself frantically against my stomach and breasts until he climaxed. I could feel the strap-on tug away from me slightly, sucked into his arse with each pulse of orgasm.

He clung to me for a few minutes. Breathless. Elated.

I pulled out, allowed him to shower and poured a wine. We fucked vanilla style after that. He didn’t come and nor did I but we connected in a way that can only occur in the aftermath of such filthy, delicious deviance.

Fleeting, financial and never fooling myself it’s more than what it is. Still fucking fun though.

- Abi