A friend of mine was so desparate to go to bed with another woman that she hired an escort for the night – only the escort wasn’t bisexual and no amount of cajoling would persuade her to go beyond a massage and some dirty talk. In the end she just masturbated for her for an hour and let my friend take some photos; she reckons they cost her about £100 each.
The thing I find strange about this story is not that I have a friend that is preared to blow her divorce settlement on the pursuit of sexual gratification but that there are heterosexual female escorts. I supose you either do or you don’t.
Of course, she could have asked me to go down on her if she was so curious but the taboo of sleeping with a friend is even greater than that of paying for sex, or paying to watch an art student have sex with herself in this case. And I felt partially responsible for my friends recklessness; she’d been fascinated by my admission that I’d slept with women on holiday and found any excuse to invite me round to talk about it. It seemed I had woken a desire in her which would end in some very expensive photographs. Which were very good when I finally found them, stuffed in an envelope at the back of her knicker drawer.
Since we’re in the mood for confessions, I should admit that I regularly go through my friend’s things when I’m at her house. Sitting and knowing the photos had to be there somewhere, I couldn’t stop myself. There were quite a pile of them too, more than she’d suggested. I wondered why that was?
They were in some kind of order and I lingered over each one, pleased for my friend that her experience had at least been with a very pretty girl, early twenties, red hair, mad curls all down her shoulders, a nice smile. And good breasts too as I could see from the next picture; nipples like acorns as my mum used to say.
Working down the pile the bra came off, then the knickers and I was disappointed to see she was shaved; probably most clients preference these days, though I prefer a traditional neat bush. On the next few she made no eye contact with the camera as if great concentration was required to stroke herself with wet fingers. I wondered if her flushed face was more out of embarrassment than arousal.
What I saw next shocked me? The two of them on the bed kissing. This was far further than she’d said it had gone and sure enough, it was to go a whole lot further. My friend’s fine breasts in the hands of the escort, a nipple in her mouth, her tongue running down her belly then finally the full works, her head buried in my friend’s pussy, clit on tongue, a look of ecstasy on her face. “You horny, deceitful bitch,” I said aloud and replaced the photos, hoping she hadn’t been so devious as to set an intruder alert with a carefully placed G-string like I would have.
There are some things even I won’t do and using my friend’s vibrator is one of them so I went home that night rather than stay at hers, and went straight to bed with a vibe and no need for lubricant. Where my waking dreams were normally about the girls from holiday, that night it was to hell with the taboo of not fancying your friends. In my mind, I kissed her all over and feasted on her not quite first time pussy – turning only occasionaly to look at the art student with the nipples who was waiting her turn in my wicker chair, resting her slim fingers on her soft, neat triangle of pubic hair.