“The ad said barely legal. You’re what, nearly forty?”

I’m forty-six, so my ego’s boosted even if he did spit the word out like foetid spunk. And to be fair he was expecting a fresh-faced, tight-bodied eighteen-year-old, so he has every right to feel taken advantage of. I figured those emotions would be the other way round, but what do I know? It’s the first time I’ve done this.

“Candi couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. A last minute family thing came up. I can leave if you like, but…”

I flash my coat open so he gets a glimpse of everything he’d be missing out on. “…this body has twenty-five years of experience that Candi’s doesn’t. And these lips…”

My tongue flicks over those lips, wetting them, helping them shine in the low light, “…they know tricks Candi hasn’t had time to learn. They’ve sucked — ”

And I stop, before I talk myself out of a client. He called a professional because he wants skills, but he called a girl like Candi so he can pretend she’s an innocent who learned all her skills from a textbook. Telling him I’ve sucked a lot of dick won’t be a selling point. Plus it would be a lie. My mother taught me that lying is a sin; lying with men, doubly so.

He doesn’t let me in the room, but I can see he’s wavering. “I’d want a discount. I’m not paying the full two hundred for a tired old MILF.”

I lean in, slip my hand through the gap in his loosely tied bathrobe — his cock is disappointing, but I’m not here for my satisfaction — and those shiny lips brush his ear. I whisper, “Let me do my thing. I may not be able to go all night anymore, but I can still make this dick,” and I give it a little squeeze to underscore my point, “Very happy. I’ll do a deal with you, lover. If I’m not worth double what Candi charges, you can pay half.”

He’s getting hard in my hand. I’m not what he wanted, but what he’s got is an urge, an erection, and a willing woman. When I take my hand back, he turns and heads into his room, muttering, “I ain’t paying full price.”

I shut the door behind me and follow him in. He’s sitting on the end of the bed, rubbing his dick.

Time to find out what I’ve let myself in for. “What do you want to do?”

He lies back, his robe and legs open. “Nothing, except come.”

A basic fuck, then. I can handle that.

I kick my shoes off, drop my bag on the dresser and open my coat. He’s got more than a glimpse now: he’s seeing everything I want him to see, and this could be where he changes his mind. I stay fit, my arms and legs are still toned, there’s only a little sag in my belly, but I am obviously not eighteen.

I’m grateful his eyes don’t rise to the sheer cups of my babydoll: my breasts really need more support to look good, but they’re on show and that’s the best I can do. It doesn’t matter, anyway: he’s fixated on the bottom of my nightie, where white lace barely covers my freshly shaved mound. The only things this lingerie hides are my C-section scar and my stretch marks, and it’s not coming off, so they’re staying hidden.

“I’m going to freshen up, lover. I’ll only be a moment.”

I take my bag through to the bathroom. I should have kept my heels on: I can’t compete with the youngsters at the gym, but I still manage a lot of squats and he’s not seeing my ass at its best.

I really am only a moment in the en suite. I’m excited by the taboo of this situation, but it’s a thrill, not a sexual excitement. I’m not wet. But I am when I come back out; well lubricated, at least.

He’s where I left him, but his legs are wide apart now. So, I guess he wants a suck ’n’ fuck. I came prepared: I take a strawberry flavour condom from my bag and kneel on the floor between his feet.

He’s relaxed, laying back with his hands reassuringly behind his head, so I feel a small sense of control. This is an unusual context, but a very familiar action: a practiced, efficient move rolls the condom over his modest cock, I grip his shaft so my thumb can rub over his head, and I tell him, “Wow, it’s so big.”

“Just shut up and suck it, bitch.”

Rude! But it is what he’s paying for, so I should earn my money. Well, Candi’s money.

I don’t know how real eighteen-year-olds suck dick these days, but I know what they usually do in the videos I’m certain he watches. I take a breath, let go of his dick, wrap my lips around his knob, and bring my head down so fast I practically head butt his pubes in my determination to gag on him.

“Fuck!”

He lifts his hips trying to go deeper; I lift my head to escape him. But I know I can take all of him now, so I do it again. This time I’m a little slower going down, and I don’t lift my head so far on the way back up, and I get an easy rhythm going that lets me almost recover from my gag reflex before it’s triggered again.

He’s thrusting now, and I can’t keep my lips closed around him — I’m going to drown in spit if I don’t choke on dick first — so I open wide, brace my arms on the bed, and drool over him as he fucks my mouth. It’s more for my benefit than his: saliva is a poor lube but it will help, and I’ll need help because I’m still not turned on.

I allow him a few more thrusts then sit back so I can say, “I want you inside me, lover.”

He stops bucking his hips, so I guess he’s on board with that.

I climb on to the bed, straddle this total stranger, point his dick towards its goal — our goal — and sink slowly onto him.

As he fills me, as artificial lubrication helps him push the real me aside to reach a deeper truth, instinct makes me murmur, “Oh, that feels so fucking good!”

I said that for him, I think: to boost his ego, to make him happy… but it’s true. I’m riding a stranger’s dick because he rented room inside me and it is good.

Maybe it can be better than good. I wriggle my hips, fidgeting to find that perfect angle, the position that will press the right buttons. I’m not getting there, but I’m close, and fuck it, close is close enough. I lean back, rest my hands on his thighs, close my eyes, and grind.

I think he likes that. His hands go to my hips and rise to hold my waist and oh fuck he’s pushed my nightie up. I freeze, because if his eyes are open he’ll see the trophies of motherhood. But what if all he sees is damage?

“Fuck, you really are a MILF. That’s hot.”

It is. And my own acknowledgement of that simple fact is all it takes: now I’m turned on, now I want this. More than want; I need it.

I rock my hips, coaxing slow, shallow strokes from him, and teasing ripples of pleasure from my cunt. “Your dick is hot. So hot. I want to come on it. I want to make you come, come inside me, I need you to come in me. Fuck me, please, fill me, fuck me, come for me!”

He’s trying to thrust now, which fucks up my rhythm. But he paid for his pleasure, not mine, so I play along and start bouncing like a horny teenager. God, I hope he comes quickly: my hips will pay me back for this in the morning.

Candace is waiting for me in the lobby. “How’d it go?”

I hand over her two hundred bucks, plus the additional fifty she negotiated from me before I went upstairs. “I did okay, I think. He seemed happy, he came, and I enjoyed myself. Um… can we do this again some time?”

She cocks her head on one side and looks at me like she’s wondering where I got my freaky genes. “Sure. I can’t let you have one of my regulars, but you can take a new client. Just tell me when you’re in the mood and I’ll pass one along. And you don’t have to pay me extra next time: that was a one off. Consider my silence permanently purchased. Dad will never know.”

Linked to Wicked Wednesday

Autistic author of psychological smut and philosophical filth. Usually found hiding behind a book.