Last year I was invited to help a man who sells used luxury and super cars. His view was that a busty mature lady in tight leather-look trousers and very high heels would appeal to some of his customers and help ‘seal the deal’ and sell more cars and so far, he’s been proved right.

Dave asks me to come into the showroom when he has an established or prospective customer coming in who he thinks might be interested in a bit of a sexy sell.  If they show interest in me and the way I look, he offers to have me take them on a test drive and then I swing into action. What I typically do is gauge how ‘interested’ they are before we set off. Some are quite open about it others much less so. If they show no interest at all, Dave will normally go with them instead of me. That will be the gay ones!

If they’ve shown enough interest, then I get the boring factual bits out of the way quite quickly and then try to turn the conversation round to sexier matters. I tell them I think the car is very sexy and see how they react.  If that’s good, then I tell them I find being driven in this car a real turn-on and if I sense interest in this, I ask them if they’re getting turned on too. If they say yes, they’re turned on too I put my hand on their thigh and say I want to feel if they’re getting stiff and so I rub them and make sure they are. Now at this point most make a joke about crashing or not being able to concentrate on driving and I use that as my cue to say if they want to find a quiet spot we can park up and I can have a better feel for how much they like the car and maybe even take care of the ‘problem’ for them.  “Don’t want you crashing, now do we?”

If they agree I wait until we’re parked and sure no one is watching and then I explain that I have gloves and lube with me and that if they’d like me to, I can give them “hand relief”, assuming they’re buying the car of course or – if they’re not – that they’ll take care of the commission I would otherwise have been paid for a successful sale.

The deal I have with Dave is that I receive a percentage of the sale profit margin as a commission for each car I help sell but he has also agreed that if I’ve “had to go the extra mile” to get a sale (that’s the phrase the he uses, meaning if I’ve unzipped the customer and tossed them off) then I get additional commission.

To date I’ve only had two who flat refused to take things any further. With all of the others, we have arrived at a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Shortly after starting in this role I had one guy who made a very clever suggestion. He said he’d like hand relief but would much prefer that I suck him off.  I wasn’t going to agree but he came up with a smart proposal. He said he was definitely buying the car and the asking price was fair but if I could get the boss to agree a £2,000 discount, he’d transfer that sum straight into my account, then and there but in return I had to get on my knees and suck him off. I rang Dave and he quickly agreed the discount, so there I was in a country car park, kneeling on the customer’s coat, my head bobbing up and down as I brought him off with my mouth. When I started, he said, “Oh, deep throat, you really are experienced aren’t you?”. Well for two grand I thought he deserved a professional level of service.

Back at the ranch we completed the paperwork and he went off but I felt bad about what had happened. Not that I’d pretty much whored myself – I know it’s seedy, but come on, two grand! – but it felt a bit like I’d cheated Dave, who has been very good to me. So I confessed all and offered to share the money with him. He was very sweet about it and said I’d earned it and could keep it, on one condition. I think you can guess. So there I was, in his office and for the second time that day, my head bobbing up and swallowing my second load of semen.

When I got home I told my husband everything and he suggested that he would make it three in a row. I told him he was dreaming – he’d get gloved hand relief as normal, and he’d be bloody grateful for it too!

Last year, I bought some tight leather-look trousers and was delighted with the reaction I got in a pub the first time I wore them, as a result of which they became one of my wardrobe regulars when I wanted a bit of attention and to feel a little sexy.   

My husband, John, and I went for lunch in Surrey and I wore my now favourite trousers, huge heels (I like to feel tall) and a tight leopard print top over a black bullet bra which makes my breasts look enormous: “like Zeppelins” was how my husband put it. With the tight leather trousers, he said I looked very ‘top heavy’ and I was pleased with that description.  We had a bottle of sparkling wine but as he was driving, I drank almost the whole bottle. I wasn’t drunk but I was distinctly merry when we left the restaurant.

We stopped at a dealer which specialises in used prestige cars – Ferrari, Aston Martin, McLaren etc.  We had no intention of buying but John likes to look at these ridiculously expensive machines. He had been in before and chatted to Dave, the owner to whom he introduced me. As I climbed into and out of several of the incredible cars on display, I knew his eyes were all over me, as he glanced from my backside to my heels and up at my chest.

After looking at a few cars I asked to use the toilet – all that wine!  John later told me that he had quipped that I’d be gone some time as I’d have to squeeze out of and back into my tight trousers and Dave said something along the lines of “I hope you don’t mind me saying this but she looks fantastic in them, doesn’t she?” and John made a comment about me being very busty too and Dave agreed. Dave asked him, “Is she as naughty as she looks?” and John said, “Oh she’s even naughtier than that!”

When I got back John asked Dave to repeat what he’d just said. He was reluctant at first, a little embarrassed but then said he’d just complimented John on how fantastic I looked, how much he liked my outfit and that John was a very lucky man indeed. I’m sure I blushed as I thanked him for his kind words.

As I looked at yet another sports car, Dave came over and said he had a question for me. He explained that four times a year he held champagne parties at the showroom for existing and potential customers. At first, I thought he was inviting us to attend but he was actually asking if I’d be willing to assist on those evenings as a sort of hostess, for which he would pay me.

I asked what this role would involve and he laughed and said “My customers are almost all wealthy men, so basically, meet, greet, flirt and look as gorgeous as this.”

He asked if £250 for each party sounded interesting and my immediate reaction was being paid to attend a champagne party and chat is almost too good to be true! So I asked if he’d like me to dress more sexily for his customers and mentioned that I wear seamed stockings and heels a lot, or I could wear leather skirts etc. I showed him some photos on my phone of some alternative tops – a tight white sweater over a black ¼ cup bra, a leather-look zipped top and a very low-cut black top, with acres of cleavage on display.

I could see he was pretty excited by now. He said he loved the white top but thought it might be a bit too much for some customers because my nipples could clearly be seen but he thought the leather look top would match my trousers perfectly. He was absolutely clear that although he loved stockings, he thought the leather trousers were best and went well with the sports cars in the showroom.

When he said my role was just to be friendly and sexy and make sure his top customers were happy, I started to ask if I’d be expected to take things ‘a bit further’ with any of them but when I mentioned offering them ‘relief’ he immediately said “Oh no, no, nothing like that” and I thought he looked pretty shocked and that maybe I’d pushed it a bit too far.  However, he took my details and we left with him promising to send through dates and more information.  I said I’d pop back sometime and show him the leather top and some others from which he could choose.

That evening I got a text from him, asking if it was okay to call. When we spoke he said he’d been thinking it over and wondered if I could come in again and go through a few things in more detail and we agreed I’d do so the next evening, when the showroom had closed.

So the next evening I went off, leather trousers, massive heels again, leather-look top unzipped to show plenty of cleavage, held up by a quarter cup bra and heavy make up. I also brought some elbow length leather-look gloves with prominent silver zips along their length and my laptop.

When I arrived, he said he’d been thinking nonstop about me and would like to ‘firm up’ our arrangement by paying me the £1,000 now, up-front in cash and  – provided I was willing to help – looking for ways to get my more involved with the business and taking care of his most valued customers. As we chatted he asked me to expand upon what I had meant when I had referred to ‘relief’. So I opened up my laptop and showed him some video clips where I am giving hand relief and I explained about being something of an amateur Masturbatrix.  I also showed him the long leather-look gloves and I put them on so he could see the full outfit.

By this point I was bent over the table to use the laptop and he was stood behind watching the video clips and he began rubbing himself against my backside.  I asked if he’d like to sample my hand relief skills and he said, “God I’d love that, but do you know what I’d like even more?” And then he told me how he not been able to think of anything else since yesterday other than cumming over my backside in the tight trousers.

So I just moved the laptop to one side, lay face down over his desk and said “Go on then”. After just a couple of minutes he let out a loud groan and unloaded onto me, and I was soon stood in that show room with his semen dribbling down my backside.

I’ll describe how my role developed in the next part

What follows is absolutely true and not “a story”.  But you need to read to the end!

My mobile rings.  “Hello”

“Hello, is that Miss Massage?”

“Speaking”.

“Oh, hello, I was ringing to get some more details of your massage service.”

“OK.  Where did you hear about me?”

“From Loui – your gardener?”

“Ah, yes, Loui – a satisfied customer, I think.” And I laugh

“Very.  Extremely.  So how would this work?  And what are the fees?”

“Well, I come to you.  I dress pretty much as you want but I’d suggest my regular massage uniform –  a low cut overall so you can admire my 40E cleavage, seamed stockings and high heels and so on.  I can send you a photo if you like so you see what you’re getting”

“Oh, that would be great.  Thanks.  And the massage service?”

“Well, I offer hand relief or for a little more topless hand relief if you prefer”.  I describe the fee structure and he appears happy with that.

We fix a time.  I wear my pink massage overall, a black suspender belt and black PVC quarter cup bra, beige stockings with black contrast seams and welt and high heel court shoes.  I’m also heavily made up.  I also have a large box of surgical gloves, a bottle of baby oil and some KY Jelly.

When we meet I like what I see.  Nice house, tastefully furnished.  He’s about my age, but with grey hair.  Nice figure, friendly face.  We sit in the kitchen and chat for a while and share a bottle of Champagne (another nice touch). 

He asks if he can take a few photos.  To be honest, I want to get on with it, so I say only if he pays an additional and not insubstantial fee.  He doesn’t blink as he hands over the cash.  I pose as requested and find myself getting very wet.

After that interlude we get down to business.  He strips off and I put on latex gloves and apply the lubricant to his engorged penis.  I begin slowly.  At his request my overall is zipped up to show cleavage but when he gives me the signal, I unzip it part way and lift my breasts out.  That seems to get him going and now he’s panting and my hands are a blur.

I hear him gasp and I know he’s about to come.  Semen spurts from his cock and dribbles down the shaft.  I continue the motion with my right hand, using his jism as additional lubricant.

After he’s calmed a little I tell him how I want to come: rubber glove on his right hand, I bend over his knee and he pushes the fingers of that hand into my sopping wet vagina while his other hand pulls and twists my nipples. I come in under one minute, a fabulous, crashing, head spinning orgasm.

I ask my punter if he thinks I could make a living doing this.  “Absolutely” he replies.  “But what does your husband think?”

And we both laugh.  “Indeed”, I say “what do you think?”

And now it’s time for us to clear up and head off to our bed.

I could really get into this massage business!

I agreed to meet a guy and go shopping with him. He had a very particular outfit request: jodhpurs, lace up knee length patent high heel boots and a white semi-transparent (or maybe I should say very thin) blouse, no bra, so really showing my boobs. Because of the high heel on my boots he thought my breasts would bounce and sway nicely. 

I suggested it might look better if I wore a black ¼ cup bra to lift me breasts but still leave me looking braless, and he went with that.

He wanted to see me walking down a high street and through a busy shopping area and in a few shops so people would see me, with him hanging back to see people’s reactions. Once we’d done that he said he’d take me to a very busy bar, so he could show me off again.

I met him in Soho and all went to plan. Before I set off I wore my nipple pumps for half an hour as this leaves my nipples very swollen and hard and the effect lasts for an hour or two.

I’d asked him what he wanted me to do if someone approached me or made any comments and he was very enthusiastic about the idea.  I should chat to them and maybe take their phone numbers and he even suggested that if the chat was erotic enough I should get onto the subject of providing hand relief e.g. by saying I was on my way to meet a man who had booked me for a relief session. 

As it happens, though I got lots of looks only one guy approached me direct, said I was lovely and asked if he could buy me a drink so I took his number and said another time but the chat didn’t get too dirty, so I didn’t mention my Masturbatrix role.

My date kept back most of the time and let me wander around. But once we went to a bar he was really determined to parade me around in front of lots of men, so I had to go up to the bar and to the ladies toilets a few times and we ended up visiting thee different pubs so quite a few people got a good view of my big tits.

Needless to say I emptied his balls in the disabled loos in one of the pubs.  He’s asked for a repeat session and says he wants the same outfit again (clearly his ‘thing’) but wants me to wear long leather gloves next time.

What follows is a description of what I did on Valentine’s Day.  It’s not a ‘story’ or fiction – this is what actually happened (although you need to read to the end to fully understand).  I‘ve tried as accurately as possible to recall the dialogue but some is inevitably paraphrased and I’ve had to leave out quite a bit or it would otherwise be too long.

I approached the wine bar – deliberately 15 minutes later as I did not want to be sat in a London bar on my own dressed like this – and as I reached the door I removed the long overcoat I had worn to cover myself on the train journey and cab ride.

I’d chosen the bar carefully.  It forms part of an elegant hotel, near Seven Dials in Covent Garden.  Attentive staff, nice cocktails, good choice of wine, if all rather expensive but none of these were the reason I had chosen it. I had used this as a meeting place before and knew it was perfect for its purpose.

I was here to meet an admirer – a fanatic, one might say.  I was wearing the outfit he had requested:  under the long coat I was wearing a short black jacket, under which was a sheer white blouse and my black quarter cup bra.  A short black leather skirt – perhaps too short in fact – and black fully-fashioned stockings with a square heel, held straight by my ten-strap black suspender belt.  As requested, I was wearing my black strappy high-heeled sandals. He’d also requested heavy make up and I had gone for a pancake style, with bright red lipstick sealed with a thick layer of lip gloss.

I reached under the jacket and squeezed and flicked each of my nipples, knowing that when I slipped off the jacket they would be pointing out through the blouse like bullets, making an immediate visual impression

I spotted my date immediately, sat on one of the black leather sofas and we went through the usual rituals of greeting.  He called a waiter across and we chose Champagne, which arrived quickly.  Once we’d saluted one another with our flutes I slipped off my jacket. He made a “wow” shape with his mouth as he took in the sight of my big 40 E cup breasts lifted up but not covered by the bra.  I’ll admit I felt a little self-conscious as not only were my big breasts quite clearly on display for all to see but as I had sunk into the sofa my skirt was riding up and not only the whole of the deep welts were visible but one or two of the metal clasps of my suspender belt.  I could feel men glancing across at me and had little doubt that already some would have blood flowing into their penises and semi-erections would be beginning to form around the bar.  Perhaps some had already identified me as a prostitute.

My client suggested we get the business part out of the way and he passed me the white envelope which I slipped into my handbag.  He said “Aren’t you going to count it?” and I said “No, I trust you”.

We talked about this and that – he asked me what was the sexiest thing I’d ever done, the dirtiest, was there anything I’d done of which I was ashamed, how many men in the offices I’ve worked in had had me, did I enjoy feeling used by men as a sex object.  The usual in other words.

As we chatted, he moved a little closer and he ran his hand over one of my stocking tops and felt the suspender belt straps.  I reached over and felt his cock, just to check he was hard.  However, a man sat on a stool by the bar had begun to watch us, so I quickly took my hand off his crotch.  I asked if he’d saved any up for me and he replied that it was already dribbling out of him, his pre-cum oozing out.

I told him it was time for him to get what he’d come here for but he said “No rush, let’s have another glass of Champagne”.  A very cool customer I thought.

I explained to him why I’d chosen this bar.  Round the corner from where we were sat was an area which led from the bar to the hotel.  It could be seen from neither and this is where the disabled toilets are situated.  They were also amongst the largest and cleanest toilets I’d ever seen and perfect for the business we were about to transact.  Leaving my overcoat and jacket and our Champagne, I slowly headed towards the toilets.  The risk at this point is that another man – say the chap on the bar stool – seizes the opportunity to follow, whether just to watch, to give me his phone number or to engage in conversation.

But on this occasion I got into the toilets without being followed and pulled the door shut without locking it.  I’d told my date to wait two minutes before following me in.  Sometimes this can arouse suspicion but what’s perfect about this venue is that to a casual observer we could each be going through to the hotel.

Once he joined me I undid the buttons on my blouse, lifted out my breasts and knelt down in front of him.  This had been pre-agreed.  He got out his cock – quite thick, firm and solid looking – and began to masturbate over my face. Also by prior agreement the verbal abuse began.  Another reason for choosing this bar is that no one would hear us.

“You dirty little slut.  You whore.  You fucking love this don’t you filthy tart.  I bet your mum and dad would be delighted if they knew you’d become a prostitute …”

I started to object at this point but he said “You’ve just taken my money so I can spunk on your face.  That makes you a pro, a whore, a tart, a scrubber …” I can’t even remember all the words he then used as synonyms for the oldest profession. 

As I looked up at him, his fist moving fast, I joined in.  “Come on then, spunk on me”

“You want it?”

“Yeah, of course I do.  I want you to shoot your load all over my face.  Come on, splatter me.  I can’t wait to lick it all up.  Give me your cum, now. Empty yourself on my face, come on.  Spunk on me – shoot your baby gravy all over my mouth”.

His hand was now a blur, his head started to tip back, and he let out a low moan.  I spotted the signs and closed my eyes. Bitter experience has taught me that an eye full of semen can ruin an evening out.  There was a long pause and he said “Jesus Christ” and then I felt the first big splash shoot up the bridge of my nose and just reach my forehead, the second landed right across my lips, a third hit my chin and as I opened my eyes I saw him squeeze out a fourth onto my cheek, before he was reduced to a dribble of cum.  He wiped the strands on the side of my face and said “You dirty old slag.”

By no means the biggest ejaculation I’d had across my face but not too bad for a man of his age.

He was gasping and trying to catch his breath.  As his semen dribbled down my face my tongue flicked out to capture the rivulets before they dripped down onto the floor.

“Go on, lick it all up, you dirty bitch” he said, rather needlessly, as that was exactly what I was doing.  He pointed to a large dollop I’d missed and then when I could not find any more with my tongue I stood up in front of the mirror and used my fingers to direct as much of his semen into my mouth as possible, before using a tissue for the rest.

At this point our deal was complete and I should have been heading home.  However, by now I was so, so wet, so incredibly turned on that I made a quick change of plan.  I took a latex glove from my handbag, told him to put it on and I got down on all fours.  “You know what to do” was all I needed to say and three fingers entered my vagina while a thumb pushed into my anus.  He started telling me what a disgusting whore I am once more but I shushed him immediately – this was about my orgasm and he was just the tool to deliver it.  After only about 30 or 40 seconds of being manipulated like this I had an orgasm of such intensity that my vision became blurred and I briefly blacked out.

As I came to, he was tucking the wet glove into his trouser pocket “A souvenir” he said. “Well, you paid for it, I suppose” was all I could think to say before we went back to finish our drinks.

As I said at the beginning, this is what happened.  However, in the interests of full disclosure, I should add that the admirer in question is called John.  He is my husband and this is how we celebrated Valentine’s Day.

I should take a step back and explain what I am into and how I have got to this point.  I suppose I am an exhibitionist and from an early age (14, 15 about then) I discovered the power I could hold over men from the way I dressed.  Seamed or fishnet stockings, suspender belts and high heels became my regular dress style.Because I am very busty (now a 40E cup) I also liked to wear low cut tops or tight tops without a bra and flaunt myself about quite a bit.

I also discovered that I liked giving oral and having a guy ejaculate in my mouth was and remains a real pleasure, although I also got into having them cum on my face.

However, I was not at all dominant – quite the opposite. I liked to be spanked, enjoyed being tied up or handcuffed, and I even liked being caned or whipped (not too hard!). In fact this ‘interest’ became so strong that I got to the point where I was unable to orgasm unless I was smacked first or at least I reached orgasm much more quickly if I was. Indeed, I could achieve orgasm from being spanked,which I think is unusual.

My husband is quite dominant and liked treating me in this way. He also encouraged me in doing quite sordid things with other guys – blow jobs in alley ways, occasional rough sex in hotels with a couple of the guys from work, this sort of thing.

However,gradually as I got older I found myself wanting this less and less and becoming much more dominant myself. Maybe because I was cuckolding my husband and humiliating him with other men – once you start calling a man pathetic and inadequate it is difficult to take a spanking from him.

We went to some fetish clubs in London – Submission, Whiplash, a few others and generally I’d dress in PVC gear and thigh length boots. Even though I was the submissive one I found guys would come over and offer to serve me, lick my boots etc. I remember the enormous thrill I got the first time I kicked one of these guys.Oh God it felt good!

So we started going to these clubs so I could find a really needy sub guy and then beat him. Not my husband’s scene and he found it a little disturbing.  Of course once men know you’re genuinely in to this they want you to be their dominatrix and some are willing to put their lives under your control.

Last year– and this was a first – I had an orgasm while whipping a guy. Such a powerful feeling.

But I’d say these punishment sessions are secondary for me. What I like best of all is doing femdom hand relief sessions.  I dress up, get the guy worked up and then lube or baby oil his erection and then (generally very slowly) stroke him usually wearing latex or leather gloves until all of his semen has been removed. I also sometimes do very, very fast and brutal hand jobs when I’m in the mood or circumstances dictate.

I average a bit over a session a day or close to 400 a year. Who you ask? Mainly my husband (I banned him from having full sex with me over 8 years ago) and my boss – I work part time and each day when I do go into the office I give him‘relief’. I have ‘cheeky barter’ arrangements with about half a dozen tradesmen– an electrician, plumber, builder, gardener, etc where they do the work and I then put on the outfit of their choice and masturbate them. In fact I did one earlier this morning.

And then occasionally I just meet someone – in a pub, out shopping and you know how it is, get chatting, and maybe have a drink. If they are genuine fanatics either for seamed stockings/stilettos or big boobed women or both then I will often ask if they’d like to experience my skills as a Masturbatrix and I’ve not had one refuse to date.  I also go to a sex club or swingers or couples club, whatever you wish to call it, and there I will generally masturbate at least one guy before then taking my husband in hand too. Some of guys there have seen me doing this a few times, so I will often get approached by one or two asking if I’d be willing to milk them.

Of course if someone shows exceptional generosity it’s only right that I express my thanks appropriately  – earlier this year a guy bought me a case of Bollinger, my favourite Champagne, so needless to say he got his gland drained with great gusto from me. He said afterwards that it was the most intense orgasm he has ever experienced.

Last year a man contacted me and asked if I would be willing to do a sort of workshop with his wife about some of the finer points of hand relief, for which he was willing to pay. I spent about four hours with this couple and we used him and my husband as subjects on which to practice.

I originally thought this was for their personal pleasure but in fact she had decided to become a professional Masturbatrix working from home and offering hand relief sessions, at a very reasonable rate.

By the time we’d finished I thought she had a good technique and she understood the importance of dressing for the role and of using delay and denial to enhance her client’s experience. We also covered how being verbally abusive to the client can add to the experience for some men while others enjoy being verbally abusive to the Masturbatrix, especially as they approach their climax.  She was very enthusiastic about getting as much semen out as possible and enjoyed having it shot over her cleavage, which is an important attribute to be a successful Masturbatrix because I think men can tell if you’re really enjoying it or not.

I contacted them again about six months later to see how things were going and she was very positive. She was doing an average of ten to fifteen sessions  each week – a mix of regulars and new clients – but she’s also found she needed to spend longer with each gent than she had originally expected, so as not to rush them, so had been obliged to increase her fee quite a bit to make it worthwhile. But she was making a very good living from it.

I asked how her husband felt about it and she said he was delighted and loved coming home each evening to see her outfits all covered in spunk. She said that as a result their own sex life had really taken off and that whereas previously they had sex about two or three times a month, they were now having sex almost every evening, sometimes with her wearing one of her spunk splattered Masturbatrix outfits. In fact her husband was urging her to“take things to the next level” and offer an oral service and possibly even full penetration both with condoms and a premium priced bareback service. She wasn’t yet ready to take the plunge but from our discussion it was clear she was tempted to do so.

This is a ‘true’ story insofar as it is loosely based on a genuine experience I had at school when I was 16. It didn’t happen exactly like this but not too far off. Of course today my headmaster would be put in prison but back then there were a number of sexual relations between members of staff and some of the more ‘mature’ girls.

“Come in”
“Ah … hello, headmaster, Miss Price told me to come and see you.”
“Yes, I know. Come in Emma and sit down. You’re in trouble again aren’t you? What was it this time?”
“Ah … well, I don’t really .. I mean ….”
“Perhaps if you have forgotten I can remind you, as Miss Price has already informed me. She caught you performing fellatio on Rob, the grounds man, didn’t she, Emma?”
“I’m not sure sir”
“Not sure? Perhaps you’re not familiar with that term but I’m told you’re more than familiar with the act itself. Do you know where the word comes from? It comes from fellātus, which in Latin is the past participle of the verb fellāre, meaning to suck.”
“I don’t think Mr Griffin has taught us that one in our Latin classes, headmaster”
“Don’t be smart, Emma. You know what this means, don’t you?”
“No, headmaster”
“It means you have a choice: either we tell your parents and let them deal with the matter or you choose corporal punishment here and now. Once again, I might add”
“Oh God, sir, not the cane again”
“Yes, the cane – six strokes. And I’d thank you not to take Our Lord’s name in vain again”
“Yes, sir. Sorry sir”
“Tell me, in detail, what happened”
I give him the briefest summary possible and express my regrets and promise there’ll be no repetition. I have my fingers crossed as I recant. But he wants detail, lots of detail. Did he force me? Did he pay me? Did he climax? When he came, did I swallow? How much semen did I have to swallow? How old was I when I first performed this act? How many men have come in my mouth in this way? Was I wearing the same stockings and suspender belt I have on now? Why am I not wearing a bra?
I notice he has his right hand in his pocket and appears to be stroking a very solid erection. Seeing my opportunity I say “Perhaps it would be easier if I was to show you exactly what I did sir.”
“Yes, yes, perhaps it would.”
I unzip him and get to work.
“My goodness, you really are good at this Emma, aren’t you? Pity there’s no ‘O’ Level in giving O, eh?” and he allows himself a chuckle. I take his entire length in my mouth, gagging at first as the head slides down my throat and then I up the pace and his whole body is rigid with tension, his breathing becoming faster and faster and then he shoots his seed into my mouth and down my throat.
As he gasps and wipes the sweat from his forehead, I take out the mirror from my make-up pouch and check how I look: I smile back at myself as I take in the scarlet lipstick smeared all over my cheeks, and a stray string of semen, which somehow escaped my greedy mouth.
“I assume we can forget the cane on this occasion, headmaster” and as I say it, I can’t hide my smile.
“Emma, has no one taught you the expression ‘assume makes an ass out of you and me’? You assume wrong young lady. Quite the contrary in fact – six strokes for your disgusting behaviour this morning and a further six for your wanton conduct in my office this afternoon.”
“God, sir, that’s so unfair. I wouldn’t have gobbled you off if I’d known you’d be so mean. That’s so not fair.”
“Gobbled off? Gobbled off? Emma, you’re sixteen years old and already you sound like some common prostitute. At least use the proper Latin term.”
“You said I was good though, didn’t you?”
“Yes, yes .. well heat of the moment and all that. I was led astray perhaps. But yes, you seem quite ..err, well practiced one might say.”
“Practice makes perfect, sir. Perhaps I could practice some more with you.”
“Yes, maybe that’s possible. Keep you away from those rough types. Makes sure you come to no harm. Maybe once a week should we say?
“Of course. As often as you like. Can we agree something on my allowance, headmaster? Say £20 a week.”
“£20?! Whatever for?”
“Sir, these seamed stockings are not cheap and I’m always in need of some new stiletto shoes, sir and then there’s the make-up, suspender belts, I’d like a corset but they cost so much and my parents only give me a pittance …. “
“Yes, yes alright. I had heard a rumour in the staff room that you were selling it.”
“Selling it, sir?”
“You know exactly what I mean – offering oral sex in return for cash. You know what that makes you, don’t you? Quite literally, you’re a cock sucking little whore, Emma”
“I didn’t hear you complaining a moment ago.”
“No, well. I’ll have a word with the bursar. There’s quite a bit in the account for helping our poorer boarders and although I know your parents are not too hard up, I’m sure we can find a little something to, err, make sure you have the right uniform and so on. We don’t want our girls looking a poor show, now do we?
“Exactly my point, headmaster. I’d better go – I have French in 10 minutes. Will you let me know when I need to practice my …err, fellatio some more”
I got up and walked to the door.
“Emma. Haven’t you forgotten something?”
I looked back. No, my handbag was over my shoulder; my knickers were still on; no condoms to clear away.
“Forgotten, sir?”
“Yes”
“Oh, sorry sir. I see what you mean. Thank you for coming in my mouth, sir”
“No, no, no, no!” He sounded utterly exasperated. He reached down beneath his desk and reappeared holding a vicious looking cane, at least ¼ inch thick. My stomach turned over. My heart beat faster than I thought possible.
“Now, I think we said 12 strokes, did we not, Emma? Please remove your knickers, bend over my desk, place your feet approximately four feet apart and don’t you dare move. I’m going to teach you a lesson you won’t forget, young lady”