Pink Balls

Sam wanted to play with my tits. The word he specifically used was “worship.” He wanted to worship my tits. He had advertised for a nice, young “non-pro” lady to come over, take her top off and let him worship her breasts, then jerk or suck him off.

A side-note about the meaning of “pro” in the sex industry. You may be thinking to yourself that you become a sex professional when you begin accepting pay for play, and logic would back you up. But the world of escorting is nothing if not nonsensical. “Non-pro” is one of those code words like “donation” or “full service.” It doesn’t actually mean you don’t have sex for money; it means you only have sex for money every once in awhile. If you only worked at McDonalds every once in awhile they’d call you “part-time,” but whatever. From my point of view, even if you’re totally enrolled in night school and only work a shift every couple of weeks, you’re still selling French fries.

But without bringing your tax report to the call, “non-pro” in effect just means “doesn’t look obviously like a street-walking drug-addicted hag.” In my experience, “young and white” generally suffices. And lest you think that I’m pulling on one over on these dudes, when you email a guy as a “non-pro” he immediately asks for your pictures and rates, so it’s a collusion.

Anyway, back to Sam, who wants to worship my tits. I may have previously mentioned that I have very sensitive nipples. I’d rather a guy spend his time up in the Bronx than downtown Manhattan any day. I don’t claim to be able to have an orgasm from breast play, I just really, really like it. So when Sam started emailing me his fantasies of pulling my tits out of my top and squeezing and slapping them, pinching and clamping my nipples, and tying my breasts off with rope, I started to get turned on. The day we arranged to meet, we shot dirty emails back and forth all morning and the simple eloquence of his dirty bon mots (“Come over, I’ll mouth fuck you and blow a load on your face”) got me even more worked up.

By the time I was climbing the stairs to his airy apartment, my panties were already soaked. Sam was quiet in a slightly creepy way. He was young and technically attractive (32, 6 feet tall, dark-haired), but somewhat affectless, like he was zonked out on major mood stabilizers. But despite our total lack of conversational chemistry, something about him drove me completely fucking crazy. I honestly don’t understand it. It must be what it’s like to snort raw pheromones or be under the spell of a love potion.

He told me to sit down in a wooden chair positioned near the window. He literally pulled my tits out of the top of my dress, a move that has always turned me on. For one thing, they look great kind of popped up on a fabric shelf like that, and it’s also just super-dirty. He started to knead and massage my tits, pinching my nipples in between his thumbs and fingers. Occasionally he’d pause and give one of my breasts a little slap, barely grazing the nipple. After a few minutes of this I was out of my head with lust; twitching. I’m sure my panties looked like a water slide. He kept glancing outside from his third-floor window and I got the feeling he was deliberately trying to put on a show for the people on the sidewalk.

He unbuttoned his jeans and pulled his average-sized dick out of his boxers. He stroked it a few times and I reminded him to get a condom. After he slid one on, he held his dick right in front of my lips and in a tone of voice like you’d command an unruly puppy with, firmly said, “Suck.”

I sucked. In my heightened state of hyper-arousal, I nearly sucked the damn thing off. The whole time he kept slapping, squeezing, and pinching my hoisted-up tits, and oh my fucking god, then he started shaking them. Holding onto my nipples he’d give them a firm shake that caused my whole breast to ripple. I have never had this done before or since, but it turned me on to no end. I had found my sex crack.

I lean toward the submissive in my personal sex life: things I love include, having my hair pulled, some name-calling, spankings, being held down, and facials. But despite these proclivities the dorkiness of most Dom/Sub stuff totally ruins it for me. I don’t want to address anyone as master or wear a dog collar, and half the time “Dom” guys just use their status to make you give them head for an hour without having to do anything in return. But I was ready to sign up to be Sam’s slave. Put me on a leash, call me some stupid name, make me catch your cigarette ash in my hands, I was fucking game at this point.

And just as my brain was lighting up like a sexual pinball machine with weird lights and dinging noises and triple point bonuses everywhere, he came. And paid me. And it was time to go.

It's not often that women get blue balls. Usually when I'm hooking up with a guy he's fucking or touching me on his own, and when he isn't I have no qualms about rubbing my clit and telling him to make himself useful. But, of course, I couldn't even do that in this situation. He had gotten what he'd paid for.

My vagina screamed out for attention as I hobbled out the door with wet thighs. I probably would have fucked a guy on the street if one had looked at me the right way. Unfortunately it was sunny and afternoon outside or I probably would have ducked into a bar and made a quick friend. As it was, I just hurried home and came twice with my trusty silver bullet.

I still have no idea why this random schmoe affected me so intensely. I just chalk it up to the mysteries of chemical attraction or math or something else I don’t understand. But I literally masturbated to this guy for weeks until the next time I saw him (which turned out to be the last time). I still haven’t picked up new batteries for my vibe, ya’ll, but after writing this I might even be inspired to do it the old-fashioned way.