“My pussy Tony,” I said, looking over my shoulder.
“All right,” I heard him mutter, just as I felt the tip of his cock butt up against my pouting wet entrance.
I tensed as he drove his cock deep into my salivating quim with one swift lunge of his hips. His huge hands gripped my waist, while he went to work with a vengeance, enabling me to relax and luxuriate in the exquisite sensation of being piston fucked by a real man. His thrusts suddenly became more urgent, followed by a few grunts, and I knew he had finished.
After he had withdrawn and I had removed the condom, I quickly cleaned him with my mouth making sure he didn’t get the urge to ask for seconds! Tony sat on the sofa to watch me retrieve one of three spare white thongs that I kept in my bag. I slipped it on, smoothed my dress back into place and then went to the sink to make a cup of coffee.
“Are you going to sit there and watch me all night?”
“Beth, I could, but Norman won’t thank me for it.” He reluctantly rose to his feet. “You take care tonight,” he said slapping my butt on his way back to the shop.
“I will,” I said to the retreating figure, then rubbed my smarting globes.
Well, the big man had certainly warmed me up, but I still wasn’t looking forward to strutting my stuff on such a bitterly cold night.
* * *
It was even colder when I eventually left the sanctuary of the porn shop at 7pm. There was a wisp of snow in the air, while the wind was blowing with a savage ferocity, so I doubted if I could put up with being in the open for too long. I cursed at having lost my lace shorts, because the thong offered no protection from the wind at all. I tried to stretch the dress down my thighs, but a few strides further along the street and it was back up beneath my ass.
I knew Dennis would be along soon to keep an eye on us, but I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t show up for an hour or two. I was heading for my turf, where my regular johns could find me, and Dennis could see what was going on. I’d only been working the street for a couple of weeks and had already established a regular group of ‘lolly-pop johns’ as I called them.
I walked down Cromwell Street and had just turned into St Joseph’s square – the beginning of my regular track – when I realized that a silver car was slowly followed me. I carried on and turned down a side road and he turned too, just 40 paces behind me.
I was on the edge of Soho where the kerb crawlers were rife, so it wasn’t unusual. The pathways were still busy with commuters, but it didn’t put the hungry punters off. I looked over my shoulder and spotted the car again, edging nearer to me.
I stopped, leaned against a NO PARKING sign and lit up a fag. My shoulders, under the blue satin bomber jacket were warm, but I couldn’t feel my ass, it was that cold!
The car slipped smoothly up in front of me and stopped. I waited for the window to slide down, but the black tinted glass didn’t move. Then I thought I caught a glimpse of a mobile phone very close to the shady glass.
Was the cunt taking a picture of me? I wondered.
I threw my fag down in disgust and was just about to walk away, when the window started to slide down. A young dark haired man sat in the driver’s seat and was clocking me. I stared back and eventually leant forward to get a better look at him. Cool hazel eyes were the highlight of his slightly oval, boyish face.
“You snapping me, or taking a selfie?” I asked, annoyed by his silence.
“Neither. What you selling darling?” he asked and then gave me a big smile, displaying a fine set of even white teeth.
“Are you the law?” I had to ask.
He was definitely acting like a pig.
The warmth wafting out of his open window was inviting. I went right forward to lean on the sill of his window. I was less than a foot away from the guy and saw that he wasn’t your average john. The guy smelt like money. Lots of money.
“Do I look like a cop? No sweetheart I’m not the law.” His response was measured and calm, which I found interesting and reassuring.
“I’ve got what you want luv, but it aint cheap,” I informed him, luxuriating in the heat drifting out of the window.
“How old are you sweetheart? Are you over 18?” he asked.
It wasn’t a question I get asked very often. I was hugely flattered.
“I’m nineteen,” I lied. “I’ll pop you for fifty, lay back for eighty, but I can be any age you want for a ton!”
“Sounds reasonable. Jump in sweetheart, you must be cold out there.”
I didn’t need to be asked twice. I walked round the car and climbed into the passenger seat, which turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life!