Thinking, other men, how many of them have had an hour with a supermodel? Not many. How many would like to? In fact, how many gape at magazines, ogling the pictured women, dreaming of a world where they could have one of them? Most of them, probably. And here I am today, eighty pounds spent, same as the cost of dinner for two, probably less, and just done what for them is a hopeless dream.
Remembering the feel of her skin, the curve of her buttocks, the smoothness of her pussy, the gently separating lips. Gently probing with my finger, feeling an increase in moisture, exciting and unusual sensation with an escort, usually they use lubricants. A woman’s natural juices, nothing more sensual, the smooth silken texture not capable of being reproduced in bottles.
On impulse, smelling my finger. Yes, how exciting, it’s still there, that sex smell, deep, earthy, sanguinary, lucky I didn’t wash my hands afterwards. The smell taking my mind straight back to her bedroom, her mouth round my cock, her legs spread for my fingers’ exploration.
Stopping in at a cafe, ordering a coffee, sitting down by the window, soaking in the scene. Occasionally, a surreptitious sniff at my finger, the world filling again with the supermodel’s essence, her extreme sexiness, the generosity of her sexual giving.
Pondering, not long ago I would have had all sorts of moral queasiness about being with someone like her, now it feels like an absolute affirmation of life and living.
