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Aging makes you whore yourself
Less parody, more filth
“Christ, the ad said barely legal! You’re what, nearly forty?”
I’m forty-nine, so my ego’s boosted even if he did spit that word out like foetid spunk. And to be fair, he did order a fresh-faced, tight-bodied nineteen-year-old, so he has every right to feel taken advantage of. I figured those emotions would be the other way round, but what do I know? It’s the first time I’ve done this.
“Candi couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. A last minute family thing came up, so I stepped in. I can leave if you like, but…” I flash my coat open so he gets a glimpse of everything he’d be missing out on. “…this body has, um, twenty years of experience that Candi’s doesn’t. And these lips…” my tongue flicks over those lips, wetting them, helping them shine in the low light, “…they know tricks Candi hasn’t had time to learn. They’ve sucked — ”
And I stop, before I talk myself out of a client. This man called a professional because he wants someone skilled in the sexual arts, but he chose a girl like Candi so he can pretend she learned all those skills from a textbook. Telling him I’ve sucked a lot of cock would not be a selling point. Also, it would be a lie, and my mother taught me lying is a sin; lying with men, doubly so.