Sex Work 1: The Scar

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Sex Worker Fragments #1: The Scar

A text promising eighty quid for 30 minutes had got him here, in this room, for what no doubt would be the sharply monitored duration of half an hour, not a second more, with the woman who answered the door in black silleto court heels and white satin bra and panties. £80 30 mins OWO, A Levels, Sex with Condom, GFE, PSE. That's what it said on the Vivastreet profile, the one he'd been perusing on and off for the last few weeks like a serial killer trolling a potential victim. CIM wasn't offered, not many seemed willing now to take a mouthful of a punter's cum for an extra twenty. And here he was, a shape less recognisable each week of purposes growing more desperately obscure, soon he'd just fade to black, a creature that left the faintest outline of an existence. He was disorientated, a middle aged man run to fat who had just a few minutes ago been wheezing in one of the apartment block lifts, regretting the joint he had sucked down to the roach at the side of the building before laboriously accessing the lobby with a texted security code.

Now he was here with his subject of desire, Italian Milf Anastasia, 34, at least that's how she was billed. Anyway time was ticking, he needed to focus and start fucking, get his cock up her advertised tight asshole. She was as pretty in the flesh as in her Viva profile pics, a ringer for Barbara Steele in Mario Bava's sixties gothic horror 'Mask of Satan' and which if truth be told that had been the main selling point for renting access to her body. Anastasia, what was her story. She was skinny and short but toned with it, glossy black hair that looked newly straightened with a hot brush flowing over her shoulders, and brown eyes that communicated both vulnerability and steel and if he was honest made part of him instantly lover her without logic, and within the hour he would gone and most likely would never see her again.

He scanned the one bedroom apartment which had the feel and look of a generic bed and breakfast, immaculately kept but anonymous. It was only lacking a kettle and a packet of digestive biscuits.
"I'm John," he said, awkwardly sticking his hand out to the woman who would shortly have his cock at the back of her throat. She took the hand and gave it a brief squeeze, her smile revealing slightly crooked but endearing front teeth. Her fingernails were immaculately manicured and covered in nude nail polish.
"Money."
John counted out four twenties and dropped the wallet on the floor. A look of contempt briefly seized Anastasia's face before it quickly snapped back in character, smiling and pleasant but in terms of making a genuine emotional and physical contact she might have been a million miles away. Then he noticed it and froze. How the fuck had he only just registered it? To the right of her navel there was a raw looking scar, a modest gouge of the flesh about three inches long punctuated with suture marks. Above the scar was a surgical pad, hiding fuck knows what, the pad's pristine whiteness suggesting she'd slapped it on as he was careering into the building in a weed haze. Anastasia saw the direction of his gaze and for an instant seemed to physically shrink, her visage communicating a mixture of personal embarrassment and revulsion at the customer before her.
"You freshen up," said Anastasia coldly, snatching the money off him and pointing to the bathroom. John heard the scraping of a drawer being pulled out and then pushed shut as he wiped his cock and balls with a hot wet flannel over the sink.

John lay naked on the bed, stoned and full of self loathing as the reality of his hirsute corpulence and numbed sensibility crept over him. Anastasia unhooked her bra to reveal cute little tits with the perky nipples of cliche, strangely bashful considering they had agreed he could insert his penis into her rectal passage. She kicked her heels off and slid her panties down, and his cock finally twitched when he saw her magnificant arse, stripped of fat yet still peachy, and shaved pubis. He felt sleepy off the weed, zoning out, trying to focus on screwing this stranger he had 20 minutes left with and not keep zooming in on the scar. Was she ill? What had brought the poor fucker to this? I'm in hell, he thought, nobody is really here, I'm on the slab waiting for my eyelids to be pressed shut.

Anastasia ran her fingers through his chest hair and absently rubbed her tits against him before reaching into a bedside cabinet for a condom. So much for the PSE. Anastasia rolled the condom over his cock as he inwardly deflated.
"It said OWO on your profile."
"No," she said, wagging a finger. "Your health. My health. You still have great time."
It did say OWO on the profile, of that John was convinced, that was always the dealmaker in his sex worker selections. Well, he could hardly go to trading standards. Anastasia sucked away at his cock with a professional vigour, she obviously had a good work ethic or at least enough to tempt a return visit, but it was all a bit artless and frantic and apart from when she deep throated him he could not feel much through the protective sheath. A large element of fellatio for him was the visual aspect, but she had positioned herself with her face pointing away so all he saw was her black mane thrashing around. He did not even know if he was hard or soft anymore. John sensed she was becoming frustrated and suggested a change.
"Let's do 69."
"Yeah, ok."

Anastasia climbed on the bed and stuck her arse in his face and maturbated him a trifle listlessly, yet when he saw her leering gash of a shaved pussy presented to him he hardened and felt a genuine excitement for the first time during their encounter. It was pure porn. He licked her cunt greedily, it tasted delicious, sticking his tongue in deep and sucking on her clit as she resumed her head bobbing. He stuck a finger in her cunt and earned a sharp rebuke.
"No fingers, no touch with hands.

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Written by mrjones2046
Uploaded November 26, 2020
Notes A man has sex with an Italian milf sex worker in her apartment but things don't pan out as expected.
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