London Calling


I’ve come all the way from New York to London just to fuck you.

As I exit the plane and walk to the baggage claim to get my one garment bag, I reach for my cell phone and call to tell you that I’ve arrived and to confirm the address to the hotel where we’ll have our tryst. I tell you that I’m dying to see you, that I cannot wait to have your cock buried inside of me.

I’ve dressed up just for you. Well . . . I do have a meeting this evening with an art dealer who’s interested in my work, but the outfit I’ve picked to wear is intended just for you. I’m wearing a very proper business-type suit. It’s navy blue with a tight blazer and a skirt that reaches two inches above my knees. I have my chestnut-brown hair pulled back into a loose chignon. I look prim and proper on the outside, but completely naughty on the inside. The only naughty things I wear on the outside are the sheer black stockings, which are suspended by a garter belt, and five-inch black suede fuck-me stiletto pumps.

I wear nothing underneath. Everything is bare, including my pussy, which I’ve shaved off . . . also just for you.

I’m outside of Heathrow and I hail a cab. When I give the driver the hotel’s address, he looks at me from his rearview mirror and smiles a knowing smile. He must suspect what I’m about to do.

I’m clenching my thighs together in anticipation of what is about to come. I barely notice the lovely view of the Thames or marvel at how strange it feels to ride on the wrong side of the road. That should tell you how I excited I am to see you!

I’m already wet for you. My nipples are hard. You can see the peaks through the blazer. I really can’t wait to see you, baby. I can’t wait to have you near me. I can’t wait for you to be in the same room as me. I want you to touch me. To kiss me. To fuck my brains out. I don’t touch myself in the cab. I’m saving it all for you.

I arrive at the hotel. The lobby is elegant but modest. It is one of those old-fashioned hotels with Victorian furnishings and an enormous fireplace. The people in the lobby look just as reserved and old-fashioned as the hotel itself. I want to shock these foppish people by shouting, “I flew all the way to London just to fuck someone!” But I don’t. I hurry up the steps and over to where the elevators are. I want to get to you as soon as possible.

You are there waiting for me. You look Kartal Escort fetching in your immaculate tailored suit. It complements your handsome dark looks. You walk up to me and grab me with sensual urgency, but then you soften a little as you kiss me lightly. My lips are electrified. I cling to you and grind my hips to yours as you kiss me. I can tell you’re already hard. You’re more than ready for me.

But then you disengage from our kiss. Your green eyes have turned dark and heavy-lidded, your lips swollen from our passionate kiss. “Go to the bed and lie down,” you instruct me with that sultry English accent of yours.

I go lie on the bed as you command, but realize you haven’t followed me. You’ve gone straight to the bathroom. When you don’t appear a few seconds later, I cannot help touching myself. With one hand I begin to caress my breasts through the cotton fabric of my blazer, with the other hand I deliver to my clit as I lift my skirt and spread my legs apart. Please, baby, hurry up and come to me!

Finally, you appear in front of me. You stand naked—your big, beautiful cock at full attention, stretched taut and engorged with blood, your chest coated with just the right amount of soft black hair, your handsome face overcome with lust. My pussy seems to clench, my nipples tighten as I study you—this gorgeous, delicious man who looks ready to fuck my brains out.

Only as you approach do I realize that you’re carrying handcuffs. Leaning over the bed, you tenderly raise my arms and cuff my wrists to the black iron headboard. Then I notice that you have brought something else.

“Is that a lace doily?” I ask, puzzled. You say nothing. You just stand back and stare at me. My blazer is slightly open from when I was touching my breasts. My breasts are big and round—38 D—and my mauve nipples are now a shade darker than normal with the peaks completely elongated. My skirt is up to my waist and you can see my wet, shaved pussy in all its pink, swollen glory. You have quite a sight to feast upon.

Around my shoulders you arrange the long piece of white lace cloth. You begin to play with it, pulling it this way and that over my ever-sensitive breasts, raking the rough fabric back and forth over my nipples until I feel I will die from the rough little jolts of pleasure. And then you spread my blazer wide open and lower your head until Kartal Escort you’re face-level with my breasts. You lick at my nipples, making me thrash about with a pleasure-pain that is too exquisite for words. My pussy surges with wetness below, making me wild and wanton for more.

“You came all the way to London just to fuck me?” you ask when you finally disengage from my aching nipples.

“Yes,” I half sigh, half gasp the word out.

You smile that sexy smile of yours. “Then you really are a slut.”

I smile back at him. “I am.”

“No,” you whisper in my ear. Your warm breath does things to my already fully aroused body. “You’re not a slut. You’re a whore.”

“Yes,” I whisper back at you.

Then you take the lace fabric and slip it between my legs. You hold it taut against my pussy, one hand behind me, the other in front so that it rides me like a burning rope. I rub myself against it and relieve some of my ache that way, but I want you more than words could ever convey. The ache becomes a need, and I think I’m going to die if you don’t fuck me soon. Please, baby, fuck me now! Give me your cock right now!

“A wanton little whore,” you say with a soft, throaty chuckle.

You grab me and turn me on my stomach. You’re going to fuck me from behind. Excited, I lift my ass, giving you full access to my wet and hungry cunt.

“That’s right, spread for me,” you say.

Instead of entering me, you surprise me when I feel your wet tongue instead. I let out an involuntary gasp as you work on me. You start low in my pussy, but quickly move up to my engorged clit, lifting my ass and spreading me further apart for better access as you deliver hard tongue strokes that drive me insane. I moan and groan loudly from the intensity of your ministrations. I am so ready, so close—I need to come something terrible. The orgasm slams into me as if from nowhere. I come so hard it almost hurts. Each hot, staggering burst of heat and pleasure wracks my body with spasms that leave me weak.

You don’t let me catch my breath when you slide inside of me. You enter me slowly, letting me feel every inch of your cock as you fill and stretch me. Then your strokes suddenly become hard and fast and deep, and I let myself cry out at each brutal thrust. My wrists still handcuffed, my arms crisscrossed from when you turned me on my stomach, Escort Kartal my head almost bangs against the iron headboard as you fuck me hard, fast and pummeling, my body flat against the bed, my aching clit brushing against the rough material of the comforter. I shout in sheer pleasure as you moan and murmur dirty things to me in my ear as you continue driving your sweet cock into my pussy.

My breasts bounce against the mattress with each rough stroke you deliver. I moan, “Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me” in time with your powerful thrusts. Your cock pounds me into oblivion, making my thighs weak, my entire body basking in a nearly overwhelming pleasure.

I feel so ready, so close to coming, that I can barely stand it. Your words drive me over the edge and well past it. “You came all this way, across the Atlantic ocean, just to take my big cock, to have your hot pussy take it all the way in, and have me fuck you like an animal.”

The climax comes to me in hard, wild waves and I cry out so loud I am sure the entire hotel has heard me. The intensity of it is overwhelming and staggering.

I beg you to come for me, that I need to feel your come deep inside me. That is all it takes to send you over the edge. You let out an animal-like groan when you finally come, your hands gripped tighter to my hips as you empty yourself inside me.

We are both spent. We lie motionless for a while—the only sound in the room is our heavy breathing.

Then you untie my wrists from the headboard and you fall asleep. You are still on top of me. I am still flat on the bed, lying on my stomach. The post-coital bliss mixed with jetlag have exhausted me to the point that I don’t care that I can barely breathe under you and fall asleep a few minutes later.


I awake three hours later. He’s already gone.

I glance over at the night stand and see it. The white envelope looks rather thick. I reach inside and find notes that total £3,500. I have no idea how much money that is in American dollars, but I’ll find out soon enough. The going rate is for me $3,500, but I have a feeling that £3,500 equal to much more in American currency.

By far, this has been the most interesting experience I have had in all of my two years working as a call girl. I’ve gotten a full-paid round trip ticket to London, full-paid hotel stay and a fistful of cash—just to have sex with a man who wanted to fuck an American whore, one who would come all the way from the states just to fuck him. On top of that, I may soon sell some of my artwork at a London gallery.

All in all, it has been a wonderful and unique experience so far.

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