MatureEbonyPru38F

This is one of the most meaningful comments of the many kind comments that I have received as an escort.

I was dismayed to hear that a favoured regular in Dublin was recovering from some pretty major surgery. When he heard I’d be in Belfast, he wrote me an anguished email, asking how I could tempt him so when he ought to be recuperating.

As the date of my arrival in Belfast drew closer, he was debating the practicalities of a punt during his convalescence. Even if he could muster up the energy for the train ride down, would he be able to get an erection when he needed to. Since his health crisis, he’d had no sexual appetite. But memories of me in white lingerie were setting his pulses racing … for good for a change.

I do have a view, which is not based on vanity, but on an understanding that there is more to getting a man’s cock hard than just a good blow job or knuckle shuffle. If I can’t get a cock stiff, or make a prematurely ejaculating prone penis hang around a little longer to enjoy the scenery, very few other women (or men) will succeed where I have failed.

And when I saw him today, he did look like he’d been through the wars. A health scare can age us, physiologically as well as in terms of that look in the eyes that ages in an instance of life changing news. Where life’s perspectives and priorities have been recalibrated and one enjoys things that one took for granted all that much more. And one can also dismiss the things that absorbed more of our energy than was warranted. I could have walked past him on the streets and not had an inkling it was he, my bed fellow of several encounters.

And this is one of those paradoxes of the hooker-client dynamics. Jointly we’ve shared the most intimate of moments, often one a client can only dream of achieving with their own partner. Yet, if he were snatched away from this earth, the lady with whom he’d laughed and fucked would be lucky if she were even the last to know. Clients drop out of our lives in ways we’ll never know. Relationships with no closure. Because it isn’t always just about the money (although that helps and is the reason for it).

He was still sceptical as to whether the visit would constitute money, in short supply while on sick leave, down the drain, or become another splendid copulation episode for us to reminisce over in future emails.

We examined his surgery scar, healing nicely, albeit with a bit of swelling too. He gave me a blow by blow account of what had been done and why. This was truly not a discussion to get either of us in the mood. Some mental navigation away from this was needed:

“Does this mean I’ll have to get on top?” I grumbled irreverently. Sometimes, in the face of threats towards our mortality, a joke can lighten the mood and stop morbid thoughts in their tracks.

“Damn right!” he retorted.

I moved closer and we kissed passionately. After a few seconds of kissing, I cupped his crotch area. His not so wee fella was clearly weighing its options and content to remain wee for a little longer.

We moved to the bed and were soon disrobed. I was mindful of not hurting his surgical scar. A few times he’d moan and gasp and I’d slow down and watch him to work out whether the moans were pleasure, or bravely disguised pain. The danger of this is I could end up pausing or slowing down at a crucial moment, never to be regained.

I sat up, “let’s agree on a safe word,” I suggested, leaning on BDSM best practice where groans and wails could be misconstrued. We agreed that if he were in pain, he’d say the word red and I’d stop what I was doing at that point, or clamber down off him. Now I could settle down and take his sound effects for what they were. Early shoots of passionate recovery.

Yes, talk about recovery! By the time I’d slipped an apple flavoured condom over his unfurling member formerly known as his wee fella, and provided mouth to cock resuscitation, neither of us had any doubts that he had what it would take for us to consummate the meeting. Soon, he asked if he could take the lead from behind, doggy style, so I climbed off him and assumed the position – head down, butt in the air. A damn shame he isn’t into anal because his thrusts were sheer coital prose. I actually began to worry that he might be over-exerting himself.

That would be wonderful, him being carted off on a stretcher by the ambulance guys, with his cock still erect and shrouded in a damp green condom. And a paramedic trying really hard not to stare at my half naked body and the clothes scattered around the bedroom, fishing a pen and note-paper and saying, “So, tell me again, what exactly was Mr Bloggs doing when he collapsed … Mrs … Miss … Ms ???”

But I needn’t have worried. A gasp, a shudder, a grip of my hips, and I knew he’d had the last laugh over the adversities of the prior months.

He stood with his hands on his hips and a cum-filled, soggy, green coloured, formerly-tasting-of-apple condom on his still stiff pecker. The hospital stretcher would not be needed on this occasion.

I had suggested that we use a cock ring, in the light of the uncertainty of the sustainability of any erection achieved. And afterwards, I was crediting the cock ring for his stellar performance.

Which was when he said what I said at the start was the sweetest thing.

“Pru, credit where credit’s due, you raised Lazarus today,”

And which part of You will I be raising, today?

xxx

Pru