A Confession to Monica

I could not possibly recall the name of the whore that I brought back to your house on that Sunday afternoon in March of 2018. I do remember that the weather was unseasonably warm and that you had made another of your trips to visit A in Boulder Creek, and I suspect—on more than one occasion—to furtively fuck your married, Persian friend, D.

I found her on line, on a site well known for these sorts of ads at the time, and gave her a call. Her ad said a great many things, including the possibility of an in-call meeting. That was not the case. Her alternative suggestion was to rent a shower room at the local truck stop south of town. She said that she did this all the time, but it didn't really appeal to me.

Then I realized that it was only me and the cats back at your house, and that you usually came home from your dirty weekends later in the evening.

The whore told me where to pick her up—in the parking lot of a well known, national discount clothing store. I told her that I wanted an hour (an indication that I wanted to fuck her—generally known as "full service") and she seemed okay with the two-hundred dollars I offered.

On a side note, prices have increased over the last two years—an hour session now averages about three-hundred dollars.

When she accepted that amount, I should have known that I wan't paying for quality.

It took about 45 minutes for us to find each other in that parking lot, which was shared with a "less than a dollar" store. My first impression of her was that she looked, well, unwashed. There was also her hands. They seemed rather red in comparison to the rest of her skin and seemed to be generally swollen—like they were fluid filled.

In retrospect, having spent time with other junkies, I can recognize this as a sign of intravenous drug use.

Once we arrived at the house, I showed the whore the bathroom and gave her a towel in the hopes that she'd take a shower (I may even have suggested it). She went in and ran the sink faucet for about 30 minutes or so while I sat impatiently on my bed. Again with hind-sight she was probably shooting-up. She might have been a heroin smoker, but I didn't smell anything.

Finally she came back to the room, and took off her clothes. That was the first time I really got a good look at her body—small, but still sagging and flattish breasts, boy-like hips, and an overall sickly body shape. Her limbs were very thin while her torso had a soft, doughy look to it. I'll admit that I noticed something that put me off slightly—though it never had before, or since—were the elongated, flap-like and darker inner labia of her vagina on full display as the took off her thong.

However, as the saying goes, in for a penny in for a pound. I paid her the money, stripped off, lay back on my bed and indicated that I'd like her to suck my cock until I had a complete erection—suck me hard in cruder words.

To be completely fair she was a talented cocksucker (or fellatrix, if you want to be fancy). Good suction, a nice amount of saliva—though she did spit on the glans of my penis at the start, which I found less than sexy—and a complete lack of teeth. She cooperated when I put my hand on the back of her head and gently forced the head of my cock up into her throat. I didn't want her to choke on my cock, but I really enjoyed the added tightness her throat afforded.

I was enjoying her skills and thinking that I might be about ready to move on to the next part of the program—fucking—went the worst possible thing, from my point of view, happened: you returned home.

The surprise of your bursting through the front door, in your usual chaotic style, caused my concentration to slip and suddenly, but with some warning (I recall, embarrassingly, that I loudly whispered to her, "I'm about to nut!") i ejaculated into the whore's mouth.

In her ad, this whore claimed that she "loves to swallow" but that, it turned out, was more rhetorical than factual. While she looked around my room with a mouthful of my spunk and a frustrated look on her face—she flapped her hand in tell me that she wanted to spit somewhere. To save your carpet I handed her an undershirt from off the the bedroom floor which she spit into and wiped her mouth.

I quickly told her to get dressed while I did the same. I walked here out the front door, right past you in the living room, in my own private, personal walk of shame.

I later told you some bullshit story about meeting her the night before at a bar. I don't think that you believed me at the time, but now you know the whole story about me trying to fuck a dirty whore in your house while you were away.

Judging from your early return, you probably didn't get laid that weekend either.