Eight out of ten turned up, which wasn't bad. Only two timewasters.
I did the sums in my head and came up with Β£574 - which meant a hundred quid from each of the ones that turned up take off the cost of the room. Even If I deducted the price of the chemise and blonde lowlights, I didn't count the shoes or red nail varnish since I already had those, and advertising was free courtesy of the internet, it wasn't bad for a couple of hours work. Not that it was work, not by any stretch of the imagination; I was going to enjoy myself.
I thought about what I was about to do as I drove north. For me it was huge, such a big step. All right, I'd already entertained two men in my living room, feeling their cum splashing over me, but this was a little different and I was nervous as hell, the kind of nervous that had my tummy churning while, at the same time, had my pussy sluicing and my insides clenched with anticipation.
Not that I intended to let them fuck me, it was meant to be strictly bukkake, semen all over me, but I got so turned on that things did get a
little
out of hand. I couldn't help myself. Not when I was kneeling on the carpet with a lovely big cock in my mouth, another two in hand while five more waited their turn, the men attached to the remaining five cranking away and calling out encouragement.
"Suck it, Robyn," I heard someone growl.
There were other murmurings and comments:
Fuck, just look at her...
Sexy...
What a slut...
Beautiful...
I wish my missus would suck my dick like that...
I slurped at that thick cock and revelled in the attention. In fact, I loved being the focal point for such lewd admiration, adored it so much, I didn't even mind being called a slut. If anything, being called names gave me a perverse thrill - after all, that's exactly how I was behaving. A lone woman all tarted up in a hotel room with eight naked men, my express intention being getting plastered in spunk - what other name fit?
****
I'd heard of it before - bukkake - but only had a vague understanding. However, a little research on the internet soon brought me up to speed. The question was, regardless of entertaining a garden contractor by the name of Dave and his good-looking friend, could I summon the courage to take it to the extreme?
It took a few days of indecision, with my opinion swinging like a pendulum before I finally registered on an internet adult site and placed an ad:
Busty mature for hotel fun. I want you to cum all over me
.
I included a selfie (no face) and an email address and waited with a high degree of trepidation.
Oddly enough, in that interim period, while I waited for the ad to get noticed and replies to come in, I was more worried about getting a zero response than the prospect of meeting complete strangers in a hotel in Peterborough - I chose that city because, as well as being far enough away from my home for anonymity, an easy drive an hour or so up the A1, it's also convenient for punters.
It took a day before the first email hit the inbox. And after that, things got busy.
With so many replies - 204 - I took the plunge and booked the hotel, choosing a Wednesday for the simple reason I couldn't wait for the next weekend. After that I sent out the date and venue and fee as a blanket email Bcc.
In the end I had ten takers, eight of whom showed up, the first at 3 p.m.
I'd arrived at the hotel just before two in the afternoon. I parked the car and just sat there, wondering what the hell I was doing. It crossed my mind to bottle it. I could switch back on and drive away. There wouldn't be any comebacks. But in the end I climbed out of the car, grabbed my bag from the boot and then walked into reception on jelly legs.
During check-in I was sure the girl behind the counter knew why I was there. I felt so self-conscious, like I had a sign around my neck that read
I'm a cum-slut. Cover me in semen - I fucking
LOVE
it
! My face burned and my hand trembled when I signed the docket the girl thrust at me over the counter, and it was a relief to take the key-card and get into the lift.
It really hit home when I let myself into the room: in about an hour's time I would be bathed and scented and wearing nothing but shoes, a black chemise with pearl trim, red nail polish and lipstick, and a smile.
The smile would be a shaky one at best.
With fifteen minutes to go I checked the mirror, and what I saw made my tummy tumble: I looked great, exactly as I'd stated in the advert.
My stomach flipped again when the mobile rang.
"Oh, shit," I muttered, my hand going to the device, pulling back before I finally steeled myself to answer.
"Robyn?" a male voice said. I detected a hint of anxiousness in the man's tone and realised perhaps I wasn't the only one bricking it.
I gulped and cleared my throat. "Yes," I replied.
"It-uh-it's Baz. I-uh-I sent an email..."
It occurred to me I'd better act like I knew what the hell I was doing, although now the moment of truth was upon me I was close to gibbering.
"Baz, yes," I replied, going for a silky smooth seductive tone. "You'll want the room number, yes?"
A second or two's pause, a blink of an eye during which I envisioned a man in a car down in the car park licking his lips.
"Uh-yeah, Robyn ... That'd be great."
I gave him the number and said I'd see him soon, and after ringing off dread and excitement mixed in my tummy.
I suddenly needed to pee, but before I could go - and before Baz knocked at the door - the phone rang again.
By the time I'd told Phil the details and hung up it was too late, Baz was at the door.
****
A standard hotel room on an idle Wednesday afternoon: a big bed, a mass produced chair of some functional Swedish design, and an open-fronted wardrobe attached to the wall. Throw in eight naked men of varying ages, physique, and hairline - some sporting tattoos, one with a ring through one nipple - add a big-breasted woman edging past forty and it's going to get messy.
At first, with the arrival of Baz, it was awkward. He seemed nice enough - mid-twenties, no Gerard Butler but by no means hideous. And it seemed he was as new to this as I was.
I opened the door and he just stood there, eyes on stalks, like he was surprised to see the selfie I'd attached to the advert in the flesh, as though he couldn't believe I was real.