Grim time with one or two redemptive highlights
| |  | Oral sex with a condom |
| | | Fingering |
| | | Penetrative sex |
Many, many years ago I had the privilege to serve in the Parachute Regiment. It took a lot of hard work to get there, but I would be the first person to admit that I was not a particularly good or suitable Paratrooper. Indeed I was very much a round peg in a square hole. I had certain bases covered such as running, jumping, hiding in trees, pissing up and shagging loose ladies (no not that bunch of Harridan's of the telly, but ladies of questionable moral who frequented our companies local). But certain aspects of the trade escaped me, such as casual violence to teach a lesser regiment a lesson, pub fights and such like. I'm a gentle old duffer really, and lacked that hardened edge. I just didn't see the point, and when trouble arose I would be more inclined to do a bit of fast talking, and if that failed a bit of fast running. These are not the attributes of a typical Paratrooper, but they are the attributes that kept my handsome and finely chiselled features handsome and finely chiselled.
However, that does not mean I was incapable of summoning up the minerals when the chips were down. When noble Airborne Brothers were in dire straits during a pub fight or some such ruck, I was not going to abandon them. Oh no. Reservations or not I would jump in and help out and I can list at least three occasions where my intervention turned the tide and saved a desperate situation. This includes one notable evening when I removed a chap's ear by twatting him over the head with a fence post that had a nail in the end. My ability to summon up the minerals was down to pride in the Regiment and not wanting to let ones chums down, and also the training which was focused on the Regiments unofficial motto- never give up, never give in, never surrender. This motto has stood me in good stead in the intervening years, helping out in both business and private life. I appreciate this may all seem bemusing and somewhat irrelevant for someone who is reading a review of a paid sex encounter, but it does have significant bearing on the story that is to follow. The point is I had to fall back on this never say die attitude when tackling a hastily arranged punt, the details of which I shall now divulge.
Two things had occurred which made me inclined to have a punt on this particular day. Firstly, in the previous week I had just had my first punt in a good long time bringing to the end a self-enforced punting sabbatical. Now the seal was broken it was going to be difficult to avoid having further adventures- as Pringles say, once you pop you can't stop. Secondly I had been working away for the week and on the preceding evening had foolishly decided to venture out with some younger colleagues. I proceeded to get as pissed as me Nan's mattress, and in the morning felt quite ghastly. Strangely, when in this state I feel there are two things that will revive me- potato bases snacks and illicit sex. The first was easily arranged and I began mainlining hash browns and quavers. The second was less easily so, as the day's events were as yet un-scheduled. However, by late afternoon I was on my way home, and still feeling the need, decided I was going to enjoy a last minute punt. I should know better as hastily arranged encounters rarely end well. However, my balls had to be listened to. Under the circumstances I decided a conventional massage parlour encounter would be preferred rather than an Adultwork booking as traffic could cock up my timings.
Knowing I would be passing Sheffield by 21.00hrs this became my focus. The easiest to get to off the motorway was GFE's, but they close at 21.00hrs, therefore the next easiest to get to was City Sauna. I headed off the M1 and across Sheffield past the Don Valley stadium and arena. The detour was much longer than I anticipated and it took a good 15 minutes to get there. When I was in the area it took a further 15 minutes to find the place. The directions on the website are less than explicit, and I had to resort to getting out of the car and having a walk around; given the nature of the area being quiet and not too salubrious I did feel quite nervous. I eventually found the place- my knowledge of the environs of Sheffield is limited, so I'm not really in the position to add much more detail to assist you in finding this place. All I can say is if you can find the Ford dealership, it is on the opposite side of the brick built arched viaduct. The building is on a street corner, one side being a busy road (Attercliffe Road) the other being a quiet side road (Warren Street if memory serves me right). The building has a curved frontage and is painted white, with a large vertical sign which just reads 'City'. I decided to park on the side road as it is quieter and is lined with old brick mills and has a rough tarmacadam surface. It was late at night and not well lit, however a number of vehicles were parked up just past City Sauna which gave me a bit of confidence to park up. I did, however, feel I was taking a risk leaving my car there. Checking my vehicle was secure I ventured to the entrance which is on this side of the building, buzzed and was let in to a cramped lounge area.
In terms of decorations it wasn't too bad- not the smartest brothel I have ever visited but far from the worst and it did seem clean. Just inside the door on the right was a desk behind which sat the Madame of the house, a large but friendly lady who relieved me of the house fee of £10. To the left, opposite the desk, and elderly Asian chap (pill box hat and big white beard- almost stereo typical) was sitting in a chair side and engrossed with a TV which was showing a film. Adjacent to him there was a sofa with two WG's on it and adjacent to them another chair with a white chap about mid 40's sat talking to the ladies. The two WG's were those available- a third was currently with a customer and as I didn't have time to wait it was between these two. To the left was Claire. She looked late 20's early 30's (i was surprised when I found out she was late 30's) quite a cute face with bobbed bleached white hair. She was clearly carrying a bit of timber (yes I know pot calling kettle...) but in her tight red corset with matching knickers she looked quite acceptable. Her colleague was a young lass, on the large side with a face like a bee keeper's apprentice. Claire, whilst not my usual type was the only real choice. However, I wasn't too concerned as she had voluptuous breast spilling over her corset and carried herself well. Before picking her out I decided I needed to relieve my bladder and asked for and was duly shown to the toilet. This was OK, but could have been cleaner. Indeed, there were more skid marks than Richard Hammond's driveway, and even my piss chisel at full force couldn't shift them. Piss completed I padded back to the lounge and picked Claire out.
Claire introduced herself and beckoned me to follow her around the desk and up a staircase. As I passed the white chap he looked at me and said "You're dead". I wasn't sure whether this was a warning, and indication of her sexual prowess or whether he was having visions of dead people. He did look like the sort who would have the latter. I chose to smile feebly and nod in acknowledgment before following Claire up the stairs. Down a corridor, turn right and into a reasonable sized bedroom. In this there was a bed and wardrobe, with a wood floor and decorations which appeared new and fresh- they had even gone to the lengths of painting murals. Overall not bad. Claire had been chatting away and seemed like a nice enough lass, even with a slight lisp. She asked for the money which I handed over - £50 for GFE including as much prodding and poking as I liked. I thought it a bit steep, but didn't want to spoil the session for a ha'pth of tar. I started to get undressed and so did Claire. As she unbuttoned and removed the corset she suddenly started to expand out of it. As the corset gradually removed she just got bigger and bigger like a tin of expanding foam, until she was stood naked in front of me, a big blubbery size 18 (and I'm being generous here) mound with stretch marks and purple blotches and everything. And the funny thing is her tits had got smaller. Her corset must have been squeezing all her fat into her tits- double bubble for her, double trouble for me.
To say I was taken aback is a bit of an understatement. I found her naked form somewhat off putting. I paused for a moment wondering what my options were. I had paid the money and wasn't going to get that back. So I either walked away with an empty wallet and full knackers, or stick with it. I decided on the latter course. I had to remember what the mission was here- the requirement to empty my knackers. It was time to focus on the mission, dig deep and summon up the minerals- never give up, never give in, never surrender. Taking a deep breath I girdled my loins (which were more likely to be curdled with Claire in attendance.) Claire asked if I wanted a massage, and this seemed a good point to start with; positive mental attitude or not, I was not quite prepared to grapple with her just yet.
I laid down on my front, and accepted her offer to use a lotion. She began rubbing my back in the half-hearted manner I am accustomed to. However, after a few minutes she said "You've got a crick in your neck at C3 and C4 and your lumber feels slightly out at Th nine and 10" or words to that effect. This was surprise number one, as it turns out she is a fully qualified sports masseuse. Not only that but her prognosis was spot on- I was experiencing some discomfort in those areas. "Would you like me to try and sort it out?" she asked. I replied in the affirmative and there followed the best punt related massage I have ever had the pleasure of. She was very thorough and firm but not forceful. I should add it was a proper massage not some faux sexy massage- there were no cheeky credit card swipes or tickling of the testicles, just a proper sports massage and I loved every minute of it. The only down side was her mundane chitter chatter, telling me about her home DIY adventures, her kids and how they won't stop playing on their X-Stations, and such like. I suppose she was being friendly and communicative, but I found the need to respond with the occasional 'Oh really?' or 'well I never!' and such like quite distracting from her efforts.
After five minutes she asked me to roll over. She asked if I'd like to continue the massage on the front, and if there were any issues she could sort out. I replied in the affirmative again, and explained that I had pulled a groin muscle whilst out on a run the previous week during which my groin seemed to explode, and not in a good way. I really should start accepting that I am what I am and pack in these lame attempts at fitness. Anyway, once again she gave my body a brief going over with plenty of attention on my groin (I swear this was a genuine condition and not another lame excuse to get my knackers felt up). She said she could feel a pulled muscle, naming it and what it did although I can't remember now, and guided my hand to it. Indeed she was quite right and when feeling carefully it was possible to discern a slightly raised area. She went to work on it, and this time it was a bit uncomfortable, but I suppose she had to do what she had to do. After another five minutes she paused to ask if the jiggy-jiggy could begin.
Knowing time must be getting on, and still focusing on the primary requirements of the mission I said yes. She knelt next to me and began fondling my happy sack and stroking the little chipolata. To be fair her technique was good and I was soon sporting a reasonable stiffy. It was then on with the popes nightmare and a bout of oral with. Obviously GFE varies between regions and in Sheffield, boyfriends don't get oral without. However, here was surprise number two. Her oral was really very good, with a marvellous sense of touch and pace, varied but never hurried. It had a wonderful effect on my little chap, and soon the reasonable stiffy was resembling the fore-arm of a Portuguese sailor. I was quite pleased with myself. As she sucked away I reached around her arse to give her pussy a good fondling. Her pussy lips were positively snapping away and she was wetter than a curlers knee. It was like feeding oats to a horse. I soon realised her pussy was like a rag man's trumpet as first I slipped in one finger, followed by another and then another and yet another until I had the best part of my hand thrusting up her well lubricated hole which was dripping like a fucked fridge.
I have always fancied fisting a lady and sensing that here was a pussy of the required dimensions, I asked if she could get on her back. I got knelt between her legs and once again got four fingers up. She seemed to be enjoying it, but must have sensed my next question as she said "You won't get a fist up there love". I wasn't so sure- from my probing's I'm quite certain I could have got my foot up there. With a boot on it. However, I wasn't going to argue, and in an effort to cover my intentions I said I was just getting her warmed up prior to slipping my cock in. Having said as much I moved forward to adopt a penetrative missionary position. As my nostrils transited over her pelvic region I was struck by a certain aroma. My goodness was she pungent down there, and strong with it. It smelt like Harry Ramsdens skip. Never give up, never give in, never surrender. I steeled myself, put to one side the fishiness of the situation and slipped my mutton musket up her clunge. Unfortunately it was like throwing a sausage up Briggate. With her size verse mine there was not a lot of traction and I soon began to wilt. Retaining my composure I slipped out and asked for her to finish me by hand. This she duly did, still covered, and I shot my filthy concrete into the rubber with a grunt and a jerk. Mission accomplished! I'm sure had my Father still been alive he would have been very proud, shook my hand and slapped my back. I'm sure my drill sergeant would have been proud of me.
All I had to do now was clean up and exfiltrate the area. I pulled off the condom and spilt a drop or two of spunk on the bed sheet, which she just wiped up and threw a towel over! Apparently she was on shift until seven in the morning by which time I suspect the bed covers would look like a map of Africa. I cleaned myself up got dressed, as did Claire, and followed her back to the lounge. The Asian elder and the white chap were still there. The white chap looked at me and said "was I right?" I just nodded and thought to myself 'well, the smell alone nearly finished me off!' I left via the main door, back to the car. Warren Street is a dead end, which I only realised when I got there, so had to do a three point turn, whilst being watched by a couple of chaps who must have been on a break from a night shift in one of the mills. Or taking a break from nicking lead off the roof. Either way, as they could plainly see me leaving what they must know is a den of ill-repute, I felt a bit uneasy.
As I drove home I could still smell the fishiness, and a closer sniff of my hand revealed it still reeked of her fanny. I applied alcohol gel but to no affect, and when home dashed straight up stairs before the wife asked why I'd brought a fish supper home. It took three good scrubbings with a heavily scented soap to get rid of the smell.
Summary- Overall this was quite a grim situation. Claire is a nice enough lass, and to be fair her massage is second to none and the oral was more than OK. However, her overall appearance, largess, and most of all the cleanliness of the bed and her overall fishy hygiene were all very off putting. That said for a chap of my age I was well pleased that I still had the ability to summon up the minerals and get my rocks off. Overall, I was left feeling a bit like Adolf Hitler's mum- proud and disgusted all at the same time.
Conclusion - punt in haste and repent at leisure.
Anonymous
The entire content of this report is for entertainment purposes only
and can be considered as a complete work of fiction which depicts the activities
of one or more fictional characters. Any reference to real persons, dead or alive
is purely coincidental.
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