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I enjoyed my ‘business trips’. Why the quotes? Until I saw it on paper, I have never thought of them as business trips, they are certainly trips, I was many miles from home, and I suppose people would describe me as a business man. My in-built modesty, my introversion, leads me to step away from the limelight. Being a ‘grey man’ has served me well in some respects. I am Mr Average, nobody notices me. I was like it at school, never the bad boy, never the teacher’s pet. I was not good at sport, or anything else come to that. I was just one of the many who make up the rest. It was almost inevitable that I would become an accountant, I was not bad with numbers. Once in employment, I became known as reliable, trustworthy. Not a leader, but dependable. Nobody feared that I was a threat to their promotion. And because of that, I was promoted faster than most. Trustworthy you see? Just what’s needed in the finance business.
So I was first choice to do what I was here for. My company has several branches, and they each hold sessions where small companies in need of financial backing, turn up to pitch for my company’s support. A bit like ‘Dragon’s Den’ but without the celebrity millionaires. It had been a bad day, far too many Power Point presentations and not enough passion. It was over now, thank goodness. Although this was the part of my trips that I liked least. The empty evenings. What to do after dinner. There was the bar of course, not my idea of a good evening. I would have one drink, take my time over it and ‘people watch’ for an hour. Then it was TV or a good book until bedtime. During my people watch, I would try to categorise people, guess what they were here for. From my table in the restaurant I watched as the bar girls took their positions on the high stools. Not difficult to guess what they were here for! I had been approached on a few occasions, but had not bitten. My pleasure in that department would come tomorrow. I had a plan.
I was married, sort of. But it was a sham. With the benefit of hindsight, it was always destined to fail, and had been failing almost from the start. She had stumbled on me almost by accident, she had just emerged from a particularly bruising, literally and psychologically relationship with someone my opposite; extrovert, flashy, one of the lads. But he had a dark side. He had brutalised her. I must have appeared to her to be acceptable and non-threatening. Mr Nice-guy. Boring but safe. I was smitten, it was lust at first sight on my part. I divorced my wife and married her, but once the sex became routine, we both realised that there was little else. We stayed together because it was easier that splitting up – all the nausea of finding somewhere to live etc. We both had well-paid jobs, which could soak up our energies, so we lived together, but separately. We slept in the same bed, we even still had sex, but not the steamy kind that had united us in the first place. I have never had trouble getting an erection, it could even be a problem at times. I would lie in bed, tenting the bedclothes with my boner. Sometimes I would go to the bathroom and masturbate, she would have been disgusted if I stayed in bed and did it lying next to her. Sometimes, if I felt brave, I would place a hand on her hip, (She always lay in bed with her back to me.) if she did not shrug it off, I would lift the skirt of her nightdress, check that she was wet enough to accommodate me, and slip into her from behind, like spoons. She would not respond, a blow-up doll would have been more receptive. I would come quickly and she would then get out of bed and go to the bathroom where she would wash away my soil. I always felt ashamed afterwards, it was little more than wanking by proxy.
So I had started using the services of prostitutes. Not street girls, not bar girls, but massage parlour girls. The first time was almost accidental. Another guest at the hotel I was staying in, left an evening newspaper lying on a seat next to me. It was from a nearby town. I idly picked it up and began to read. It carried half a page of adverts for brothels, or massage parlours. The town was only a small diversion from my route home, I was curious.
The place was over a wine shop. That’s rather an exaggeration of what it was – a cheap booze shop. The entrance to the parlour was at the rear, but being on a corner, it was possible to park in a pub car-park opposite and to a watch the comings and goings. The paper had given the opening hours as 12 -12. At about a quarter to noon, a woman arrived and opened up, quickly followed by two younger women, then a third just before twelve. The first punter arrived at about ten past. It was now or never, if I left it much longer, the girls would be well-used by the time I got there, and I did not fancy that. I crossed the road at speed, head down, and rang the bell. I was buzzed in and climbed the narrow stairs to the reception area. The two available girls paraded for me, they wore white overalls which they both removed to display lingerie-clad bodies. They did slow pirouettes so that I could dikmen escort clearly see what was on offer. I made my choice, paid up-front and was shown to a room. The room was not bad, clean, quite large and with a king-sized bed. The colour scheme was red. In one corner was a shower cubicle, in another was a large TV showing porn. The walls and ceiling were mirrored. I took a perfunctory shower and lay on the bed naked. Very soon, my cock was almost at full strength. The door opened and ‘my’ girl, Jade, walked in.
“Pleased to see me?”
She quipped, nodding at my stiffy. She told me to lie on my front and began to stroke my back and shoulders in what I assumed was the massage part. She ended up fondling my balls between my parted thighs. There was a brief pause, then she asked me to turn over. During the pause, she had removed the white overall she had been wearing and was naked apart from her shoes and hold-up stockings. She was quite stunning, she surely could have been a model? The orgy scene on-screen was reaching its climax, the cum-shots. Numerous porn-stud cocks spouted copious amounts of semen onto porn-queen tits and faces. In front of me was a lovely twenty-something woman, naked for my pleasure. My own cock swelled a little bit more.
She got onto the bed alongside me, I moved over to make space, instinctively extending an arm, she settled comfortably under my wing, ran her fingernails gently down my body and encircled my straining organ with her cool fingers.
“What kind of things do you like?” She breathed into my ear.
“What’s on offer,” I replied, “it’s my first time.”
“Anything that you’ve ever fantasised about,” she breathed, “I’ll tell you if it’s not on the menu.”
I took a deep breath. I have always wanted to speak to a woman in the earthiest terms, to ‘talk dirty’, but had never dared to. This time I was paying, and I imagined that this young woman was pretty much un-shockable.
“I would like you to suck my cock first, then I would like to fuck you, in several positions. I would like to finish by coming on your tits.”
There. I had said it. And it felt good. She raised herself and kissed me lightly on the lips.
“That’s what I would like too.” She lied glibly.
But I forgave her as she kissed her way down my body to engulf my tip with her brightly painted mouth. It was all I could do to prevent spilling my load down her throat there and then, but I managed. She sucked expertly, bringing me to the brink of climax several times, but each time sensing my impending orgasm and bringing me down again by removing her mouth from my tip, running her tongue down my shaft and sucking my balls. It stopped me from erupting, but certainly maintained my interest. After I don’t-know-how-many times, and just when I thought that I would have to push her away, she sucked me in again, but this time with a condom between her lips. She completed the task with her fingers, straddled me, and impaled herself on my throbbing stalk.
“My, you are a big boy, she husked, “it’s stretching my cunt.”
I think that my cock swelled a bit more, this girl caught on quickly, echoing my ‘dirty talk’. I had never heard a woman refer to her cunt like that. My wife uses the word as an oath, perhaps referring to a colleague as;
“That fucking cunt.”
But she had never used that kind of language in a bedroom context. I rarely swear, certainly not using what I consider to be sex-words, and I had never had the balls to use the words in bed, so to hear this from Jade’s lipsticked lips, was a bonus.
“I bet you say that to all the boys.” I teased.
“Perhaps,” she replied, “but in your case, it’s true. Now shut up and fuck me with it.”
How could I refuse? I thrust powerfully up into her, holding her hips to keep her in position, focussing on her fine tits swinging in time to my pumping. Again I came close to losing it. I stopped and asked her to get on all-fours so that I could fuck her from behind. Now I could reach under and enjoy the feel of her tits squirming in my hands. All too soon I had to stop again. I needed to come soon or risk bursting a testicle or two. This time I had her in the missionary position. I supported my weight on straight arms and fucked her by swinging my hips into her. Jade brought her hands up to her chest and cupped a tit in each, lifting them and squeezing them together. Fixing me with her blue-green eyes, she sad clearly;
“They are ready for your spunk.”
That was my undoing. I pulled out of her and straddled her chest, tearing off the rubber on the way. It took only a few jerks to trigger what was always going to be a memorable ejaculation. Several powerful spurts covered her offered tits, her throat and the lower half of her face with thick, grey-white cum. Jade waited until I had squeezed out the last few drops before raising her head to survey her generously lacquered tits.
“Nice one,” she said, “now lick it off.”
Then she laughed and reached for tissues to clean up my gift.
I had thought emek escort that she was serious when she ordered me to lap up my own juice. I said nothing, but I would have gladly done so if it could have worked as fuel for a second coming, I did not want the encounter to end. But it had ended, she was already putting her working clothes back on. She asked if I wanted to shower again, I declined, but asked her what days she worked. I wanted an encore. There was a rota, she told me, but it was not reliable, girls failed to turn up for all manner of reasons and standbys were often summoned at short notice. She suggested that I telephoned first to check.
During the drive home, I could not get Jade out of my mind. I was in love. Again. Back home I was the same, reliving the encounter over and over. Was what she had said true? Was I a ‘big boy’? In the past I had held a ruler against my erection, who hasn’t, but although I had an idea of what I had, how did it compare? What was average? Google came to my aid, not only did I discover what the average was, but how to measure myself ‘scientifically’. Jade was right, I should not have doubted her, she must have had many to compare, I am twenty percent bigger that the UK average, both in length and girth. (I’ll leave you to reach for your calculators.) In absolute terms it is not that much, it does not make me porn-stud material. But as an ego-boost, it’s wonderful. There is part of me that is not ‘Mr Average’!
The weekend passed agonisingly slowly, my wife did not feel my hand on her hip in bed, I was ashamed of my ‘infidelity’, but that did not stop me from wanting more. On the following Monday, I telephoned the parlour to ask when Jade was scheduled to work. The next day I called in sick, something that I had never done without good reason, but I really was sick – love-sick. I made the long drive to ‘Pleasuretown’ and presented myself once again at the parlour door. ‘Come into my parlour said the spider…’ Jade was there, but was ‘busy’. I would have to wait. I felt insanely jealous at the thought of another man fucking her, just a few feet above my head. I imagined that I could hear the springs creaking as he nailed her to the bed with a cock muck larger than mine. Fortunately, and incongruously, a TV in the reception area was showing cricket, a test-match between England and the Aussies. We lost two wickets while I was waiting.
Jade emerged at last, she recognised me.
“Hello James,” she said, not my real name of course, my name is Robert, but I don’t suppose Jade was hers, “back already?”
Naked and on the bed with my paramour, I soon forgave her infidelity. Soon those lips would be around my cock.
“Same again?” She asked.
I had not thought about it.
“No,” I replied, “something different.”
“Why don’t you massage me, and see what it leads to?”
The idea of running my hands all over her firm young body was irresistible. What it lead to was pretty much as before, but as I banged my (Bigger than average!) length into her cunt from behind, she looked back over her shoulder and said:
“If you promise to be careful, you can stick it up my bum if you’d like.”
The offer almost made me come, but somehow I managed to catch it, Whether her words were calculated to make me lose it, I will never know. Anal! I had never done it! I had raised the subject with my first wife, to be promptly slapped down, and had not dared to try again. Another offer from Jade that I could not refuse. She showed me how, how to use masses of lube and to go slowly. She was incredibly tight, and the sensation for me was blissful. It did not last long, as soon I was able to make full-length thrusts, Jade turned to me again and said;
“Fuck it. Fuck my arse.”
I came instantly.
So I became a regular, not just with Jade but in parlours wherever I went. I even found one close to my place of work that I could visit at lunchtime. I came close to overdosing. On one business trip I managed four trips in three days; once on the way to my destination, twice in the evenings after I had done my thing at the branch office and again on the way home. Evenings had a different feel to daytimes, somehow slightly seedy and sinister. I eventually regulated it to no more than once a week.
So that was my plan for tomorrow as I finished my meal and headed for my one drink at the bar.
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I did not plan it. It was a happy accident, sexual serendipity. Even if I was devious enough to plan it, I could not have had time. At about four PM on a Tuesday, my boss walked into my office. Without knocking, but he is the boss. His arrival was indication enough of the urgency, normally I would be summoned to his presence.
“Amy,” he began, using his ‘I need a favour’ voice, “there is a problem at The Branch.” He always called it ‘The Branch’, we only have one branch office, but he has ambitions for others, then it would be ‘The Xxx Branch. “their computers are down, it seems to be software, can eryaman escort you go there now?”
“What now tonight?”
“Yes, now, now.”
My mind raced, there was really no reason not to, my husband was away on one of his numerous business trips, I had no idea where, we don’t speak much, and would not be back until Thursday. All I had planned for tonight was a microwave meal for one, TV and an early night. And software was my thing, I had written the programme that seemed to have failed. I had little choice but to go and sort it.
“Take the train, I will get Jane to book you into an hotel for when you are finished.”
I had to go home first, I needed a change of clothes at least, but by seven I was speeding north, scanning a copy of the software on my laptop to see if there was anything obvious. The damned thing had been working fine since it was commissioned, six months ago.
I was met at the station by the branch manager and driven to The Branch. We were met there by the hardware engineer from the company we outsource to. It was he who had spent all day trying to find the fault. It took me four hours, reading code line by line, before I found it – a virus. The mainframe was not supposed to be linked to the web, just to the head office mainframe, so where the bug had originated was a mystery – a worrying one.
I fell into my hotel bed at about two A.M. Exhausted, intending to sleep in, I had hung a ‘Do not disturb’ sign on my door, but the general busy buzz of the hotel woke me anyway. I rang room service for breakfast to be sent up, then called my boss. He already knew that the problem had been solved, the branch manager had stayed at The Branch all night running the system.
“I’ll get the first train back then,” I offered.
“No. Stay there, you might need to be on hand if the problem recurs, we’ve booked two nights anyway, have the day off, you’ve earned it. Pamper yourself, have a facial or a manicure or a massage, whatever the hotel has to offer, put it on the bill.”
He was right, I had earned some R & R. The hotel was part of a newly opened complex in the city centre. There were new shops to be explored. I could walk to them easily from the hotel. Even the train station was within the complex. I explored the shops. Pamper yourself my boss had said, I had booked a massage for two P.M. and a visit to the hotel hairdresser afterwards. My nails are fine and the idea that I might need a facial was just a touch insulting. But some new undies would qualify as pampering though. And of course, new shoes. I also treated myself to a new dress, though where I would get to wear it was still unknown, me and husband don’t go out together any longer, except to company functions. To the outside world we are still a couple, at home it is the cold war.
After a light lunch, I headed to the ‘Leisure suite’ for my massage. If anything, this is where my business trip began to turn into a sexual adventure.
My masseuse was female of course, young, east European, very attractive. She wore a white overall, but with the zip pulled a long way down. There was no evidence of a bra. I wondered if she did men as well as women. She was good at her job, but she did allow her hands to linger more than I thought strictly necessary, and did she really need to brush my nipples? Or to let her fingers trail the length of my outer vaginal lips? When she declared herself finished, she asked if I needed anything else. Was it my imagination, or was I being offered sexual services? I declined, I had never entertained a lesbian thought, but at the hairdresser’s and in the lounge bar where I had tea afterwards, my mind began to roam. Suppose that I had said, yes, what’s on offer? Masturbation probably, what would it be like to be brought off by a woman? She would certainly know how. Or perhaps oral, again, who better than another woman to know just how to do it? To my surprise, I found that I was becoming aroused at the thought, safely hidden under my loose jumper and sensible bra, my nipples had erected. I have always believed that my nipples and clitoris are in some way hard wired together, if my nipples get hard, so does my clitoris, and vice versa. I was also seeping gently into the gusset of my sensible knickers. Snap out of it girl, I told myself, you are not lez. But I was aroused. To divert myself, I began to consider the men in the lounge as possible sex partners.
There were only a few. I dismissed my young, charming waiter first. He was, I thought, probably gay. The bartender was female, don’t even think about it. The others taking tea, were mainly couples. I ignored female halves and considered their males. Too fat, too old, that one was a possible, but something of a last resort. Others began drifting in, work over for the day. A group of six, five young men and an older woman. Then two young men, talking animatedly and a bit too loudly, about their day. Two! Now there was a thought. They were young enough to have the stamina, even if the first one failed to satisfy me I could call immediately on the second. But would a young man, or even two, have the experience that I, a seasoned sex-pot, required? I would have to teach them, show them what a mature woman expected. And there lay the problem, how does a woman tell a man what she wants? I had never had too, I usually got what pleased me, eventually. But sometimes there had been occasions when I should have said;
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