They had arranged it by text after he had contacted her initially through the 'Services' section on a local listings board. John had clicked on the advert and there was a brief message about personal services offered by a mature lady, late forties size 8, to gentlemen, with two photos underneath. On them she was lying face down on a bed in a black bra, black stockings and suspender belt only. She looked petite with a nice figure and a brutally chopped blonde bob that resembled a helmet. John understood the need for her to preserve her anonymity and he figured even if she was ugly at least she would be a calming and experienced presence if he got nervous or struggled to perform during what would be his first meeting with a sex worker. John didn't think he'd get the jitters, but who knew how it would pan out. He requested further details from her through the site's e-mail relay.
She replied with a succinct overview of the personal services she provided. Cum in my mouth or spunk on my face £35.00. Sex with condom and OWO one hour £90.00. Cum as many times as you want! She signed off with her mobile number. He texted her and agreed on £90.00 for an hour. They would meet at 12.00 that upcoming Saturday, his next day off work, and now there he stood on the supermarket car park on a crisp bright autumn day. John's phone buzzed in his coat pocket.
Ur 20 mins early I'm not ready
John texted back telling her there was no rush he just wanted her to know he was here. Stood in the comparatively deserted far right hand corner of the car park he smoked a joint to ease his creaking back muscles, watching the shoppers push their trollies up to their cars and unload them.
Considering this was his inaugural occasion paying for sex John was surprisingly nerveless, aside from the slight paranoia the weed had instilled in him, but that would pass, and it was worth it just so he could bend his back properly. Plus the weed kept him off the booze which had been a far more injurious, in terms of health and personal relationships, aspect of his life. He still felt numbed and mildly euphoric off the 90mg of codeine he had swallowed dry that morning and combined with the weed made him feel pleasantly dissociated from everything. John had worked a late shift at the warehouse yesterday and the long hours of heavy lifting had left him stiff legged and sore thus inspiring his prescribed breakfast. Over two cups of black coffee and a cigarette he had rolled three single skin joints and then, suitably revived and limbs loosened, had exited the house for his midday assignation.
John finished the joint and lit a cigarette. His phone buzzed again.
Ready flat 22 turn left on car park right opposite the roundabout
Oh well, even a bewildered old fuck like him could follow those instructions and he was glad to be on his way. There was now a steady stream of football fans cutting across the car park to get to the tram stop on their way to that afternoon's match and John felt a little edgy. He stepped over the knee high wooden fence and was on the grass verge flanking the dual carriage way. As he walked along the kerb he was suddenly weak legged as the reality of what he had planned to do, fuck a stranger for the best part of hundred quid, the financial irresponsibility and moral queasiness of which now tormented him while the noise and fumes of the seemingly endless flow of traffic added to his agitation. It was only a five minute walk to the roundabout but seemed endless in his heightened perceptive state, and relief flooded through him when he saw the blocks of flats looming into view. Now he just had to cross the road.
John arrived on the other side of the roundabout breathless and sweating having artlessly darted through the queued vehicles, earning himself a few bellowed insults as he did so. Like she said, 22 was dead ahead, at the forefront of irregularly spaced blocks of one up one down brown brick flats numbered in odds and evens. John walked up the external concrete stairway that began by the side of flat 20's bin locker. It struck him as surreal that a stranger was waiting to receive his semen in the flat he was rapidly approaching. John knocked on the door, wondering what she looked like.
The door swung open and John abruptly recoiled. She stood there bare footed, dressed in dark blue leggings and a black strappy top over which she wore an open pink chiffon blouse, her toenails daubed scarlet, flappy feet with long toes that repulsed him. John was a bit weird about feet. He recognised the blonde bob from her photos, and now saw the severe fringe that helped frame her leathery and peculiarly asymmetrical features like someone had grabbed her head and ever so minutely twisted it out of shape. Funny, being repulsive, a typical middle aged man ran to fat, himself he never thought of harshly, albeit inwardly, judging someone's physical appearance but £90 and his new position in the consumer food chain made him want to exclaim "Fuck that!" and flee. He'd heard about lived in faces but she had fucking squatters. Feeling buyer's remorse before he'd actually purchased the product, John prepared to turn on his heel but she barked "Come in" and he stepped into the flat with a sense of foreboding.
The living room, which you entered on going through the front doorway of the flat, was empty apart from a mountain bike propped against a radiator that had knickers and bras drying on it and an unplugged electric heater pushed up against the far wall. She grabbed his arm and steered him into the poky bedroom which was at the top of a hallway that led to the bathroom and kitchen. The bedroom was reminiscent of a downscale bed and breakfast, a grey and characterless room spotted with mould.
"You got the money? Better give it me now saves any awkwardness afterwards." Her voice was a nicotine scorched rasp. John gave her five twenties and she took her purse out the dressing table across from the bed and gave him ten pound change. It was all so formal he nearly asked for a receipt. Purse back in the dressing table drawer, she started to undress. Fucking hell, thought John, I'm under starter's orders. He thought they might have a bit of a chat as a lead in but no. John unzipped his coat shakily. She was down to a black thong.
"This'll have to go in the bin, "she said, rolling the thong down her pale thighs, "It's sticking to me crack."
She lay on the bed naked, setting the stopwatch on her phone for 60 mins and beginning the countdown. John was still undressing in the small gap between the bed and wardrobe. Peeling off his last item of clothing, the black sock off his left foot, he fell backward and crashed arse first into the wardrobe and compounded his buffoonery by tripping on his pile of clothes and catching his kneecap on the sharp edge of the bedside cabinet. He climbed onto the bed and lay beside her. John thought she would take the lead but was she was just blankly staring at the seconds ticking away on her phone. Fifty four minutes to go.
"Can I kiss you," asked John.
"Yeah," she said, finally putting the phone down at the side of the bed.
They faced each other on the bed.
"You're quiet," said John.
"I always am with new customers. My regulars say I never stop gabbing."
John lunged in clumsily, sticking his tongue in her mouth, and then hastily retracting it when he saw her revulsion. He took in her body for the first time, decent figure and shapely legs, nice skinny tits and a fine arse. John kissed her tits and sucked her nipples.
"You've got cute tits."
"Thank you," she said, vacantly staring at the ceiling.
So much for the experienced hand, thought John, kissing his way down to her pussy. Her pubic bush was a neat blonde triangle, her pussy a little grisly and livid if truth be told, but being a gent he would persevere. John sucked her clitoris, being careful not to catch it with his teeth. Not a murmur as she lay deathly still. He didn't know whether to finger her cunt or check her pulse. John spread her pussy lips and popped two fingers in and moved them slowly in and out. She coughed, a phlegmy tobacco inspired emission that made John jump. Fuck me, thought John, she'll probably fart point blank in my face if don't move sharpish. He felt a cross between a gynaecologist and Barry Foster in 'Frenzy' as he moved in to lick her pussy. Larvely! As he inserted his tongue into her vagina he was hit by an eye sizzling and nostril singing whiff of what reminded him of ammonia, or maybe a bucket of stale piss in an old folks' home, rather hoping now that she would break wind just to take the edge off the stench. Trying not to flinch he gave a cursory licks out of politeness then resurfaced and lay beside her again.
