Gents,
Took one for the team the other day. Saw an ad in the Mirror "Valeria, sensual massage by female. 514-651-3750 Downtown." Called her up. She said she was 20, Spanish, 5'2", 125 pounds, D-cups and located on St Marc. Massage "with finish" would set me back $50.
Made an appointment and set off for a new adventure. One of those "call me from the corner when you get there" type of deals before she gives you her apartment code.
Up I go. Greeted by a young woman, early 20s, kinda plain looking and about 25 pounds over weight. Not a full-grown porker, but definitely hasn't met too many meals she doesn't like. She's wearing lingerie and it's clear that the D in D-cup stands for "droopy"
Whatever. I'm not one of those unfortunates who can only get a rod for visions of absolute perfection. Used to be, not any more -- things seem to change the further I drift from personal perfection myself. Now I just need one good body part. Let's just say her gut wasn't as large as mine. Not quite.
Bachelor apartment. I'm ushered onto the bed and off we go. She sits down beside me. OK rub. Strong but untrained hands. Answers phone once. Kneels down between my legs and works on the back. Best part of tease is that her long chain dangles down the ol' arse crack and tickles the Black Hole. I'm tempted to clench the butt cheeks and rope her in for good.
On the flip she asks me if I want her clothes off. Sure. Let's see 'em unleashed. Boinggggg -- a couple of skin slinkies. Luckily, her belly acts as kind of a shelf on which they perch. Whatever, who am I to look a gift cow in the mouth?
She asks me if I like slow or fast and I tell her to mix it up a bit. Decent pole work on the technical side, but all the while her forgettable plain jane (or juanita, in her case) face is marked by the unmistakable look of utter indifference. Boredom. Even chomped on a bit of cud...errr, gum while she was polishing the ol' bayonet.
No problem. I'm still having fun. Why? Simple: a woman is touching my knob. I don't need much to get my attention; shiny beads, a dozen beer and a woman on the stick. A bit caveman like that.
So I start pawing her up a bit. Start with the poop cutters. She's kneeling beside me, so the arse is right there. Large, but there. That's always good. Move for the jugs and she flinches. "Don't play with my nipples," I am ordered. Great. I don't mind the roly-poly ones, but I hate restrictions.
Because she looks so bored, I decide to hold out as long as I can. I'm smiling and directing traffic up and down the Tube Steak Highway so that I don't shoot my bolt too soon. Eventually, she starts ignoring my stage directions and starts freelancing for the Big Finish. I'm almost laughing -- trying to concentrate on baseball statistics, in order to stem the white tide.
During this time I ask her if there are other options. $40 additional for a BJ and $80 (I think) for FS. That's on top of the $50 cover charge. My, my, I think to myself, this one thinks pretty highly of her services. I politely decline.
Finally (I think I we were into overtime), she gives a couple of nice twists on the upstroke and I can contain myself no longer. I put her out of her misery and deposit a healthy dollop of baby batter onto her forearm.
Ah, ain't love grand?
McVie
Took one for the team the other day. Saw an ad in the Mirror "Valeria, sensual massage by female. 514-651-3750 Downtown." Called her up. She said she was 20, Spanish, 5'2", 125 pounds, D-cups and located on St Marc. Massage "with finish" would set me back $50.
Made an appointment and set off for a new adventure. One of those "call me from the corner when you get there" type of deals before she gives you her apartment code.
Up I go. Greeted by a young woman, early 20s, kinda plain looking and about 25 pounds over weight. Not a full-grown porker, but definitely hasn't met too many meals she doesn't like. She's wearing lingerie and it's clear that the D in D-cup stands for "droopy"
Whatever. I'm not one of those unfortunates who can only get a rod for visions of absolute perfection. Used to be, not any more -- things seem to change the further I drift from personal perfection myself. Now I just need one good body part. Let's just say her gut wasn't as large as mine. Not quite.
Bachelor apartment. I'm ushered onto the bed and off we go. She sits down beside me. OK rub. Strong but untrained hands. Answers phone once. Kneels down between my legs and works on the back. Best part of tease is that her long chain dangles down the ol' arse crack and tickles the Black Hole. I'm tempted to clench the butt cheeks and rope her in for good.
On the flip she asks me if I want her clothes off. Sure. Let's see 'em unleashed. Boinggggg -- a couple of skin slinkies. Luckily, her belly acts as kind of a shelf on which they perch. Whatever, who am I to look a gift cow in the mouth?
She asks me if I like slow or fast and I tell her to mix it up a bit. Decent pole work on the technical side, but all the while her forgettable plain jane (or juanita, in her case) face is marked by the unmistakable look of utter indifference. Boredom. Even chomped on a bit of cud...errr, gum while she was polishing the ol' bayonet.
No problem. I'm still having fun. Why? Simple: a woman is touching my knob. I don't need much to get my attention; shiny beads, a dozen beer and a woman on the stick. A bit caveman like that.
So I start pawing her up a bit. Start with the poop cutters. She's kneeling beside me, so the arse is right there. Large, but there. That's always good. Move for the jugs and she flinches. "Don't play with my nipples," I am ordered. Great. I don't mind the roly-poly ones, but I hate restrictions.
Because she looks so bored, I decide to hold out as long as I can. I'm smiling and directing traffic up and down the Tube Steak Highway so that I don't shoot my bolt too soon. Eventually, she starts ignoring my stage directions and starts freelancing for the Big Finish. I'm almost laughing -- trying to concentrate on baseball statistics, in order to stem the white tide.
During this time I ask her if there are other options. $40 additional for a BJ and $80 (I think) for FS. That's on top of the $50 cover charge. My, my, I think to myself, this one thinks pretty highly of her services. I politely decline.
Finally (I think I we were into overtime), she gives a couple of nice twists on the upstroke and I can contain myself no longer. I put her out of her misery and deposit a healthy dollop of baby batter onto her forearm.
Ah, ain't love grand?
McVie
!
, 
, 
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