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Hi, I haven’t posted much for a while. I have been very busy as you will understand when you read the following.
If this is your first visit to my bio on Lit, it might be worth your while flicking back through a few earlier episodes. But what the hell, if you don’t fancy that, then just enjoy this,
Of course we didn’t win the stupid contest with Colin’s ridiculous creation. Of course I didn’t have sex with my mum and of course nothing happened between the three of us, as had looked possible at one time.
I came back from Berlin a bit pissed off with both my mum and Colin for, after the Erotic Festival they had little time for me, and spoiled bitches need to be centre stage, don’t they? And with them I was certainly not that.
So, back in London, I threw myself into my work and, to a lesser extent, my studying. The studying was bog standard and exceedingly boring, but, I suppose, necessary. My work was anything but bog standard and was becoming far from boring.
My work, as those who have followed my Lit submissions, will be aware, is modelling; photographic modelling, glamour photographic modelling, lingerie and nude, photographic modelling and more. More? Yes, that stage beyond nude modelling where open leg poses, touch and expression become important so that the model simulates sex, simulates masturbation and simulates orgasms. But more even than that. For recently, it was what went on over and above the posing and shooting that had become so important.
It was the extras that were setting me aside from many of the other models and it was them that had made me the money to support myself at college.
The extras such as: me masturbating as the photographer looked on; the photographer playing with my tits and sometimes my pussy, him, they were nearly always hims, massaging and masturbating me; me doing that for him and letting him cum on me and now and then me giving him a blow job.
For some time, well at least a couple of months I hadn’t included full sex on the menu, but of course it made its way there eventually.
So now, some three months after Berlin, I was being paid to let men fuck me. Only those, I claimed, however, that I fancied, found interesting and might have had sex with, even unpaid: well we all need some moral fallback, don’t we?
The first time was tough, I have to admit that. Both doing it and thinking about it afterwards.
He was a forty something, reasonably good looking, married bloke called Adam. About six feet tall, nicely slim with dark curly hair, he was good looking, maybe even handsome, but it wasn’t his looks that got him the ‘ultimate’ extra. It wasn’t also the hundred quid he paid me, although that did help, of course. No, it was his sharp and rather self-deprecating sense of humour, the way he sent both himself and me up, his broad range of interests, wit, quick mind and his thoughtful and considerate approach. He didn’t try to hide his reasons for hiring me. “I like looking at pretty girls and even more pretty girls with no clothes on,” No ‘it’s all about art’ BS or trying to rationalise the reason why he wanted to have me naked and look at my tits. I liked his direct, no frills approach and he easily passed my ‘would I fancy him in normal circumstances test.’
He had already asked for poses over and above those specified by the studio. My portfolio specified ‘Glamour, underwear, nude and speciality posing.’ As with most photographers who booked models such as me, they quickly enquired about the ‘speciality’ stuff. This led to a discussion on spread leg and pussy shots, me touching myself and simulated personal masturbation poses, all of which he had bought for an extra fifty pounds.
“So does Sammi go further than just flashing her bits,” he said as he knelt between my opened legs focusing his camera on my blue-painted fingernails, which he had placed on my neatly trimmed patch of, nearly, blonde, pubic hairs: yes I am a natural!
“That depends,” I said smiling as he took hold of my wrist and moved my fingers a little so that my forefinger slid onto my slightly gaping lips, right next to my clit.
“On what?” He asked shooting away with his Canon digital SLR.
I smiled. “Oh many things.”
He moved his camera nearer to me presumably for close up shots of my finger on my pussy, a really creative shot I always think.
“Well……………… er, um, who is asking, for a start.” I replied as I became a little disoriented due to the surge of sexual pleasure I was giving myself
He beamed a nice smile. Moving a little so that his leg in his jeans pressed against my thigh he said.
“Well that’s obvious isn’t Sammi, it’s me. Do I pass? Could you bend your knees and move your feet nearer your bum please?”
“That also depends,” I replied bringing my knees up into the classic, ‘I’m ready to be fucked pose,’ flashing my pussy at him and his camera as I did so.
“On what you want?”
“What do you offer?”
Smiling, I said. “That also depends.”
He güvenilir bahis lowered his camera.
“Look let’s cut to the chase,” he said smiling, taking several shots of my pussy in quick succession.
“Ok,” I murmured as I felt some more tremors of sexual arousal as my finger stroked around my clit, as he had asked.
“I would like to have sex with you Sammi.”
“How much sex?”
“Everything. Could you straighten your legs again, close them, and stretch them out before you?” He asked lifting himself and straddling me just above my knees. His erection was very obvious in his thin trousers.
I remained silent for a moment as he went on. “Rub your clit again in this pose Sam.”
I did and it felt good. I liked being watched and photographed as I masturbated.
He was clicking off shot after shot of my hands, fingers and pussy and was gradually panning up my body. He took several of my tits, focusing in tight on my very erect nipples. Then he was taking my face and wider angle shots combining, firstly my face and my tits, then those and my figers on my clit.
“That’s a fantastic expression, Sammi.”
“Is it?” I whispered croakily.
“Yes it’s a real, I want to be fucked expression.”
Another “Is it?” slipped from my lips.
“Yes very much so, do you?”
“Want to be fucked and if so how much?”
“Eighty quid,” somehow slid from my mouth.
It was only when he put the camera down and started to unzip himself that I realised what I had done; agreed to have full sex with a punter.
He was quickly as naked as I was, well almost for I was still wearing a suspender belt and black seemed stockings.. Equally quickly, he was lying beside me pulling me into his arms. I toyed with the idea of asking for the money first as I always did with my more usual extras, but with my tits crushed against his chest and his gorgeously hard dick rearing up my stomach, that didn’t seem appropriate.
He kissed me. I hadn’t expected that. My first inclination was to pull away, but it was actually quite nice, so I let him continue.
He was a good lover. He took his time, seemed as concerned for my pleasure as he was for his own and moved the sex along at a pace suitable to both of us. He caressed my tits ands played with nipples and then rubbed my clit and pussy, just as a ‘normal’ lover would. It was quite easy to forget that I was selling myself to him.
“You ready?” He asked squeezing one boob and sucking a nipple, quite hard.
“Mmmmm, yes I am.”
Fortunately, and I was so lucky here, he had his own condoms and didn’t expect me to supply one, for I didn’t have any: I have never made that mistake again!
“Why don’t you sell it properly?” Monique a French photographic model I had got to know through a studio asked me a few weeks later, when we were having a coffee and brandy at an outside table at a bistro in Wandsworth Bridge Road.
I had told her that I had started offering sex as one of my extras. We were very open about such things; after all when you pose together simulating lesbian sex, you do become quite close. We had done that three times.
She had been offering it for some time before me and in some ways, she was the encouragement, or whatever you want to call it, that had persuaded me, well that’s my story.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve pretty much stopped modelling now.”
“Have you, why?” I asked.
Smiling and taking a deep drag on the foul smelling Gauloise she patriotically smoked, she replied.
“I’ve found a better occupation.”
I laughed at her slight misuse of English by terming nude modelling as an occupation.
“And what’s that?”
“I do escort work.”
“What meeting men in hotels and that stuff?”
“Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Not if you’re with the right agency, as I am.”
She explained it to me stressing that the clients were thoroughly vetted and that the minimum payment a girl got was £250.00 for an hour’s work.
“But that goes up massively for more kinky stuff and all nighters. It’s not uncommon to get a £1000 job.”
We talked at some length about it. I was more interested to learn about it than to think I would do it. The more Monique talked though, and the more she suggested I should try it, so my curiosity, and greed I suppose, increased.
Since that first time with Adam some six weeks ago, I had done it eight or nine times I suppose. And to be absolutely truthful I actually enjoyed nearly all of them. That was the most difficult aspect of the whole slightly sordid situation for me to understand. Were hookers supposed to enjoy it? I had always doubted that they did, but from the moment Adam had slid the condom on his cock, I had laid back my legs open and had welcomed him between them, I had gained almost as much pleasure and satisfaction from this illicit sex as I did from unpaid stuff. What a mixed up and illogical set of thought processes and morals I have!
“I hope you don’t mind and will understand Sammi, but I türkçe bahis need to see you undressed,” the escort agency owner told me.
It was a couple of weeks after my chat with Monique. That had ended with her suggesting I think about the idea of becoming an escort and to let her know if I wanted an introduction to her agency.
After that first fuck with Adam I had been full of doubt and a degree of remorse. I had questioned just where all this might lead me, after all not too many twenty-three year old girls from my classic, British, middle class background become hookers, or do they? I had no one I could turn to for any sort of advice or counselling. I mean, you can hardly ask your mum what she would think if her daughter sold her body for sex and my older lover DD, would never understand, men just don’t do they?
I had always lived a bit on the edge. What with drugs and girls, older men and some quite extreme sex, I had always struggled with understanding morals, restrictions and taboos. I really did have a hedonistic outlook, if one enjoys something, how can that be wrong? So I indulged in all those things. I did smoke a lot of pot, popped some pills and messed around with various white powders. I did have sex with other women, and I did fuck older men, particularly DD the English lecturer at Bristol Uni who, after I left in the second year became, and still is, my lover. So was I now just thinking of another experience, another buzz, another turn on or, was I taking that step that tips someone over the edge. I didn’t think so, I can control myself and shape my destiny, after all I had given up smoking hadn’t I, cigarettes that is, of course.
“I need to check for tattoos, piercings and the like,” he explained. “I can get my secretary to come in if you like?”
I had called Monique and said I was interested and she had offered to arrange an appointment for to see Tom Marston the escort agency owner. “He’s a really nice guy,” she’d explained, “Not a bit seedy or pervy, all business-like and very professional.”
Asking if I needed a female chaperone struck me as rather ironic, considering I was here to get work selling my body. In any case modelling had helped me overcome any shyness I had about flashing my bits.
“No that’s ok,” I said.
I was wearing a mid blue, sleeveless, vee neck, cable knit sweater over a white tee, with tight, white jeans. The sweater was hip length and I wore a big, three inch belt with a massive buckle round my waist. No stockings or socks for I was wearing strappy mid-heeled shoes with my red painted toes on view, tarts shoes as I had read the late Princess Di called them.
“There’s a screen over there you can use.”
“How much do I take off?”
“Just down to your underwear.”
I didn’t have any tats or piercings, scars or other unsightly marks so I passed Tom’s test. It was encouragingly giving weight to Mon’s assertion at how well he organised everything, including closely vetting the clients. He even made me pull my boobs out from my bra and slip my panties down so he could inspect my tits, bum cheeks, tummy and pubes.
“Well you certainly have the essentials for escort work Sammi,” he told me going on to ask if I wanted to try it.
I said that I would like to for I had pretty much reached my decision before arriving at the smart offices in Hoxton, Tom’s attitude and approach had simply confirmed it.nt
Slipping into my jeans and tee and pulling my sweater over my head, I fluffed my hair up as I listened to him saying.
“Before you make your mind up I want you to have a good think about it. Lots of pretty girls are happy to get their kit and have sex with guys for stacks of loot. I need girls who are more than that. I need sophisticated and intelligent girls.”
The smartarse remark was out of my mouth before I could stop it; that’s always been a fault of mine, speak first and think later.
“Want me to take a test?”
Fortunately he got the irony and smiled.
“No that won’t be necessary, but I would like to join me for dinner tomorrow night, if that’s convenient?”
He said that car would pick me up the next evening from my home in Essex. That made my mind whirl for I was thinking how would I explain it to my mum. I asked him what I should wear and he deflected the question by simply telling me where we were eating. That clearly put the clothes issue back in my court: his test I guessed.
Anyway, that all went ok. I told mum I was seeing a guy who was very wealthy, explaining away the car, and that he was taking me to Nobu, which wasn’t where I was going. It seemed sensible to hide something, but the Nobu reference, explained the posh frock.
Apart from having to take endless calls on his mobile, I have six girls working he explained, the evening was great. It was almost like a date and I felt a little disappointed when he put me back in the car. I thought I had passed his test for he complimented me on the lowish cut, thin strapped, black dress with a slightly flared, on the knee length skirt, I didn’t güvenilir bahis siteleri get drunk, snort any powder or pop any pills and I used all the right knives and forks.
In between the calls from both the girls and his ‘controller’ who he told me was in touch all the time, for each girl had a pager that was constantly switched on and ready for use if anything at all started to go wrong. “Which thankfully it rarely does,” he added comfortingly, he explained the pay and told me how he wanted his girls to behave.
You have to be like a real date. Most of the guys are after companionship and comforting almost as much as they are after sex. They are nearly all married and use my agency as a preference to having a mistress.
I understood what he meant my mind flitting back firstly to Adam and then several other photographers with whom I’d had sex. I certainly and, from what they said, them as well, found the sex more memorable and enjoyable when we kissed and cuddled as well as fucked.
I didn’t realise to ages afterwards that my first ‘date’ was a set up. It was with an established client who I was ‘given’ to, to check me out: Tom’s sensible standard procedure.
It was though as scarey as hell. What had seemed a good idea, meeting for a drink in the bar of his upscale London west end hotel, having lunch at a well known, extraordinarily expensive and exclusive restaurant and then back to his hotel for the remainder of the afternoon, when Tom had briefed me, felt anything like it as I got ready. I told my mum I was going out to lunch with my ‘new rich boyfriend’ so when the car arrived, Tom always send cars to collect us and pick us up after dates, she wasn’t surprised: jealous maybe for she loves all the glam stuff.
She also wasn’t, therefore, surprised to see me in my tight, smart but casual, just right for lunch, Versace blue jeans, little silky, cerise coloured camisole top with spaghetti straps and a rumpled, beige linen jacket with the sleeves rolled up, very Miami Vice, a look that has very much come back in London.
“Hello you must be Sammi,” a, getting on for middle-aged, pleasant looking, slightly balding guy said in an American accent as I stood in the doorway to luxurious bar of the top hotel.
“Yes and you must be Derek.”
He was nice. Easy to talk to, not at all boastful and seemingly more interested in me than in talking about himself. I did though, as advised by Tom in my ‘training sessions,’ see he does take all measures to provide a great service, keep turning the conversation back to him: after all that is everyone’s favourite topic isn’t it? I mean no one is really interested in other people’s holiday photos are they?
A large glass of simply superb Chablis later and we were walking through Mayfair towards the restaurant. He was clearly well-known and we were shown to a corner table where we sat almost side by side with a view across the elegant restaurant: in my limited knowledge it seemed to be the best table.
He told me he owned an electronics company based in Illinois. By the advice from Tom and for discretion I didn’t ask its name or the town where he lived or worked. “Be interested, but not inquisitive” as Tom had explained.
He said he was married with three children, one of whom needed special care and hat had caused problems in the marriage. Although surviving and on the surface was fine, and he thought they still loved each other, he needs the buzz of girls like me.
“It keeps me young Sammi, and stops me straying,” he explained rather illogically, but who was I to disagree?
“Undress for me,” he asked politely, pouring us both a glass of champagne when we were in his sumptuous suite.
Does this make me a slut, a woman of easy virtue, a natural hooker or just a girl who lives on the edge, wants to push out the boundaries of her sexuality and loves to experiment, but I found undressing myself, then him, having extensive foreplay with a virtual stranger then fucking him twice that afternoon, so easy.
He wasn’t an especially good lover, but he was considerate, not particularly demanding and did, as Tom had intimated, want comfort and, I suppose ‘loving’ as much as he wanted sex.
It was flattering to see and hear his admiration and desire for me as I stood before him in the sitting room of the lounge and dropped the jacket on the floor. I ran my hands up and down my body a few times before lifting the lacy hem of the silky, cerise camisole up to my breasts. I stroked them through the material enjoying that feeling and liking the look on his face as I touched my tits. I pulled the camisole up and over my head and handed it to him: where the hell that idea came from I have no idea, perhaps I am a natural, born stripper!
“Oh Sammi, you have lovely breasts,” he said quietly, his eyes riveted on my little B cup fried eggs. I liked him saying that so I took my bra off and showed them to him in all their naked glory.
With lovers and when posing with photographers I adore being half undressed, either half actually, while the other party is fully clothed. I have no idea why, but it is such a massive turn on for me and that was the case with Derek. I think it was that turn on that made fucking my first escort client so relatively easy.
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