Words of Terror

Words of Terror

If a client is smart enough, he will never ask a WG a direct question, like: “Is it big?” Actually yes it is big, if you were a small anemic rodent. “Did you enjoy that?” Of course I enjoyed it, the sensation of having the attempted removal of a body part without the aid of anesthesia ranks only a close second. “Do I fuck good?” Oh god yes darling, if one enjoys having your entire body weight pressing down upon them, you grunting and sweating in a desperate attempt to climax, then yes I absolutely enjoyed that.

Why, oh why do men need to hear from a prostitute he is paying, if he preformed well? Do they think we really care about any thing else but the money? I mean they can’t be that deluded to think that a woman who has no attraction to them other than the notes in his wallet would seriously care how good or bad his sexual performance is in the bedroom right? But, surprisingly enough men care, and will want to know if they are good in bed, even when he has paid for the performance. Hilarious.

And then because of some quirk of genetics, men seem to think women are like them sexually. They seem to think they just have to be in the room, not even close. Unlike men women are a lot more complicated. We need foreplay, and I don’t mean hours of bad foreplay either. I mean some technique, some handsomeness, make me feel like a woman. So, considering the client/hooker dynamic, this isn’t going to happen in the 22 1/2 minutes he is going to be in my room. But god love ’em, they will try. Sadly in some cases, valiantly in others, but mostly unsuccessfully. It requires a bit more than a nipple twiddle, a finger in the pussy, a wet sloppy kiss and hopping on to get my juices flowing in real life. But in the work areana, I have been known to orgasm at least 3 times between former and the latter activity. If my performance makes the client happy, what is a bit of harmless theatrics?

There are no other words uttered by a client to strike fear in my heart like these: “What do you like?” Oh sweet mother of god! I want to run screaming from the encounter with my rather tightly fitting secretary skirt thrown over my head. This will usually be an encounter from hell. Usually. You do have those dear souls who are really interested in pleasing you the WG, and can do it well and with great regularity, the holy grail of punters. These darlings I am not talking about. I am talking about the misguided soul who had managed to make one female fake a series of orgasms and now thinks he has the ‘touch’. God save me from these.

These tend to think they can lick-no you can’t. What you end up doing is not listening to my instructions, and drooling endlessly down my girly bits to the point I think I have peed the bed, and the only way to save myself from ‘The Drooler’ is to fake endless orgasms, and exclaim in whoops of ecstasy. This is exhausting. I am not a multi-orgasmic female to begin with, so having to pretend to be something that isn’t naturally part of may nature is annoying at best and exhausting at worst.

Then there is the ‘Long Hauler Driver’. This one has a teflon coated dick. Nothing you do is going to make him come, he has caused your wettest lube dry up, and you will go through several condoms and positions. With this one, as I see the time getting close, I will bluntly ask if he wants to stay longer, praying he doesn’t. It is amazing when the idea of having to continue to pay for his fun is reintroduced to him, how bloody quickly he comes. I profusely thank him for the wonderful time, and all the orgasms he has given me, and store his number in my phone, never to answered EVER again.

Then there is ‘The Duke’, he swaggers into the room, is all gestures and hot air, about what he is going to do to you. He dramatically counts out the money and with at theatrical flourish worthy of the great Olivier himself, he hands you the money. He them proceeds to assume the air of a theater director and starts to order you to do this and that action. He keeps his clothing on, not wanting you to see the pointless little dick he is hiding beneath his tidy and trim clothing, everything about him will be ‘top notch dawlink.’ Oh he wishes. He is hiding the fact that he can’t preform. The juice has been sucked clean out of that fruit, and the only sad pleasure he can have now is to wave his money around and pretend that he is in charge. Check the notes with this one, he isn’t above passing you a few false 20’s.

Then there is the ‘Richard Gere Wannabe’. God these jackasses are the bloody worse. They need to place you the hooker in the position of being a victim in need of them rescuing you. Groan, they will start off usually right off the bat with questions about why are you doing this work, and wouldn’t you like to quit and ‘settle down’. I am perfectly settled thank you! What this cretin wants is to make you feel grateful and beholden to him for ‘saving’ you from a life of ho-ing. Jesus-fing-Christ! And in exchange for having saved you, what are you expected to give him in return? Your whole life, body and soul, and of course sex for the rest of your life. Fuck that, I would rather get paid for having to screw some knob head.

All I ask is for the love of god, could someone teach these men how to take their service and leave with grace? Stop asking me what I like. You neither have the technique or the necessary attractiveness to begin to help me accomplish the desired level of excitement needed to get from A to B. You are a punter! A man who pays for sex with a hooker, why the hell would I even consider you as anything but what you are? I would never even consider you as anything other, I would never trust you to be faithful. You have external genitalia, which makes you a man, and you are a punter. No thank you.

Be the totally selfish bastard we all know you to be and concentrate on yourself. Trust me when I say this, we really would rather you be selfish.

One thought on “Words of Terror

  1. Dear Mme H. Happy, you really are quite wicked…but you have denied yourself thus far, one of the most exquisite pleasures of all.

    You wait for a man with a genuinely oversized member (otherwise it is nowhere near as much fun). As sure as night follows day, he will, sooner or later, ask the question:

    “Is it big?”.

    At this point, you must adopt your tenderest, most compassionate mein, look at him with tears of admiration brimming in your eyes and say:

    “I am so glad you have the courage and self awareness to mention it yourself, because you give me an opportunity to express my admiration for the way you have coped and adapted to one so small” (you might like to pause and sniff slightly, or gulp at this point) “very few men would have your courage and maturity”

    For a few, terrible minutes he *WILL* believe you…I promise…they always do…silly boys and their toys…

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