The Condom


They had arranged it by text after he had contacted her initially through the ‘Services’ section on a local listings board. John had clicked on the advert and there was a brief message about personal services offered by a mature lady, late forties size 8, to gentlemen, with two photos underneath. On them she was lying face down on a bed in a black bra, black stockings and suspender belt only. She looked petite with a nice figure and a brutally chopped blonde bob that resembled a helmet. John understood the need for her to preserve her anonymity and he figured even if she was ugly at least she would be a calming and experienced presence if he got nervous or struggled to perform during what would be his first meeting with a sex worker. John didn’t think he’d get the jitters, but who knew how it would pan out. He requested further details from her through the site’s e-mail relay.

She replied with a succinct overview of the personal services she provided. Cum in my mouth or spunk on my face £35.00. Sex with condom and OWO one hour £90.00. Cum as many times as you want! She signed off with her mobile number. He texted her and agreed on £90.00 for an hour. They would meet at 12.00 that upcoming Saturday, his next day off work, and now there he stood on the supermarket car park on a crisp bright autumn day. John’s phone buzzed in his coat pocket.

Ur 20 mins early I’m not ready

John texted back telling her there was no rush he just wanted her to know he was here. Stood in the comparatively deserted far right hand corner of the car park he smoked a joint to ease his creaking back muscles, watching the shoppers push their trollies up to their cars and unload them.

Considering this was his inaugural occasion paying for sex John was surprisingly nerveless, aside from the slight paranoia the weed had instilled in him, but that would pass, and it was worth it just so he could bend his back properly. Plus the weed kept him off the booze which had been a far more injurious, in terms of health and personal relationships, aspect of his life. He still felt numbed and mildly euphoric off the 90mg of codeine he had swallowed dry that morning and combined with the weed made him feel pleasantly dissociated from everything. John had worked a late shift at the warehouse yesterday and the long hours of heavy lifting had left him stiff legged and sore thus inspiring his prescribed breakfast. Over two cups of black coffee and a cigarette he had rolled three single skin joints and then, suitably revived and limbs loosened, had exited the house for his midday assignation.

John finished the joint and lit a cigarette. His phone buzzed again.

Ready flat 22 turn left on car park right opposite the roundabout

Oh well, even a bewildered old fuck like him could follow those instructions and he was glad to be on his way. There was now a steady stream of football fans cutting across the car park to get to the tram stop on their way to that afternoon’s match and John felt a little edgy. He stepped over the knee high wooden fence and was on the grass verge flanking the dual carriage way. As he walked along the kerb he was suddenly weak legged as the reality of what he had planned to do, fuck a stranger for the best part of hundred quid, the financial irresponsibility and moral queasiness of which now tormented him while the noise and fumes of the seemingly endless flow of traffic added to his agitation. It was only a five minute walk to the roundabout but seemed endless in his heightened perceptive state, and relief flooded through him when he saw the blocks of flats looming into view. Now he just had to cross the road.

John arrived on the other side of the roundabout breathless and sweating having artlessly darted through the queued vehicles, earning himself a few bellowed insults as he did so. Like she said, 22 was dead ahead, at the forefront of irregularly spaced blocks of one up one down brown brick flats numbered in odds and evens. John walked up the external concrete stairway that began by the side of flat 20’s bin locker. It struck him as surreal that a stranger was waiting to receive his semen in the flat he was rapidly approaching. John knocked on the door, wondering what she looked like.

The door swung open and John abruptly recoiled. She stood there bare footed, dressed in dark blue leggings and a black strappy top over which she wore an Pendik Escort open pink chiffon blouse, her toenails daubed scarlet, flappy feet with long toes that repulsed him. John was a bit weird about feet. He recognised the blonde bob from her photos, and now saw the severe fringe that helped frame her leathery and peculiarly asymmetrical features like someone had grabbed her head and ever so minutely twisted it out of shape. Funny, being repulsive, a typical middle aged man ran to fat, himself he never thought of harshly, albeit inwardly, judging someone’s physical appearance but £90 and his new position in the consumer food chain made him want to exclaim “Fuck that!” and flee. He’d heard about lived in faces but she had fucking squatters. Feeling buyer’s remorse before he’d actually purchased the product, John prepared to turn on his heel but she barked “Come in” and he stepped into the flat with a sense of foreboding.

The living room, which you entered on going through the front doorway of the flat, was empty apart from a mountain bike propped against a radiator that had knickers and bras drying on it and an unplugged electric heater pushed up against the far wall. She grabbed his arm and steered him into the poky bedroom which was at the top of a hallway that led to the bathroom and kitchen. The bedroom was reminiscent of a downscale bed and breakfast, a grey and characterless room spotted with mould.

“You got the money? Better give it me now saves any awkwardness afterwards.” Her voice was a nicotine scorched rasp. John gave her five twenties and she took her purse out the dressing table across from the bed and gave him ten pound change. It was all so formal he nearly asked for a receipt. Purse back in the dressing table drawer, she started to undress. Fucking hell, thought John, I’m under starter’s orders. He thought they might have a bit of a chat as a lead in but no. John unzipped his coat shakily. She was down to a black thong.

“This’ll have to go in the bin, “she said, rolling the thong down her pale thighs, “It’s sticking to me crack.”

She lay on the bed naked, setting the stopwatch on her phone for 60 mins and beginning the countdown. John was still undressing in the small gap between the bed and wardrobe. Peeling off his last item of clothing, the black sock off his left foot, he fell backward and crashed arse first into the wardrobe and compounded his buffoonery by tripping on his pile of clothes and catching his kneecap on the sharp edge of the bedside cabinet. He climbed onto the bed and lay beside her. John thought she would take the lead but was she was just blankly staring at the seconds ticking away on her phone. Fifty four minutes to go.

“Can I kiss you,” asked John.

“Yeah,” she said, finally putting the phone down at the side of the bed.

They faced each other on the bed.

“You’re quiet,” said John.

“I always am with new customers. My regulars say I never stop gabbing.”

John lunged in clumsily, sticking his tongue in her mouth, and then hastily retracting it when he saw her revulsion. He took in her body for the first time, decent figure and shapely legs, nice skinny tits and a fine arse. John kissed her tits and sucked her nipples.

“You’ve got cute tits.”

“Thank you,” she said, vacantly staring at the ceiling.

So much for the experienced hand, thought John, kissing his way down to her pussy. Her pubic bush was a neat blonde triangle, her pussy a little grisly and livid if truth be told, but being a gent he would persevere. John sucked her clitoris, being careful not to catch it with his teeth. Not a murmur as she lay deathly still. He didn’t know whether to finger her cunt or check her pulse. John spread her pussy lips and popped two fingers in and moved them slowly in and out. She coughed, a phlegmy tobacco inspired emission that made John jump. Fuck me, thought John, she’ll probably fart point blank in my face if don’t move sharpish. He felt a cross between a gynaecologist and Barry Foster in ‘Frenzy’ as he moved in to lick her pussy. Larvely! As he inserted his tongue into her vagina he was hit by an eye sizzling and nostril singing whiff of what reminded him of ammonia, or maybe a bucket of stale piss in an old folks’ home, rather hoping now that she would break wind just to take the edge off the stench. Trying not to flinch he gave a cursory Anadolu Yakası Escort licks out of politeness then resurfaced and lay beside her again.

“Suck my cock.”

“Suck yer cock…” she echoed derisively. She was mute and immobile. This is going well, thought John. Finally she jerked into life and slithered down the bed. She took his cock in her mouth and sucked him hard and methodically. John groaned as his body reacquainted itself with sensual pleasure. He had forgotten how nice it was to have his cock sucked and she had an unflashy but effective metronomic technique. She was lying at the right hand side of him, leaning over to suck him off, presumably to avoid eye contact, giving him a side view. She actually looked good with his prick in her mouth, it was reassuringly hard and it was very pleasant watching her mouth going up and down. He felt stoned and a little dreamy now they had finally acquired some kind of natural rhythm and she seemed relieved to have the flesh prop in her mouth. It now seemed an abstract exercise for her.

John ran his fingers cautiously through her hair, wary of her admonishing him, but she carried on serenely, not coming up for air. His fingers got jammed in the heavily lacquered strands so he extricated them and stroked her shoulders instead.

“Lick the tip of my cock.”

She complied and visually it was hot but he didn’t really feel anything until she tightly pressed her tongue against his glans and made him twitch.

“Did I ring ya bell,” she laughed. We’ve shared a moment at last, thought John. It went straight to his head.

“Lick my balls,” he said, almost instantly dissipating the minor connection they had established.

“I’ll have to move,” she said sulkily. John moved up the bed so his shoulders were touching the headboard, his back slightly arched so he could peer down at her. She licked his balls in a lacklustre manner. There wasn’t much sensation.

“Suck my balls.”

She shot him a look of hate and then stuffed his left bollock into her mouth.

“Suck the other one,” said John, and startled himself by laughing out of nowhere at the absurdity of it all. She laughed too but neglected to suck the right testicle, sticking the tip of his cock back in her mouth instead. It looked and felt great, pure porn. She kept going, snorting air up her nose occasionally and he could feel orgasm on the way, his balls constricting.

“I’m going to come.”

“Mmm…” she went in assent.

“Don’t stop…”

John ejaculated in her mouth, surprised by the intensity of the orgasm. She kept pumping his prick after the first shot which he thought was conscientious and elicited a follow up mini spasm. It was overwhelming and John was totally satiated. Anxiety then cloaked him as John thought, Christ, I’ve got to get it up again. He was sat up now with his back to her, listening to her choke down his semen. After briefly composing herself, she reached for her phone and showed it to him. Just less than forty four minutes left and he was spent. Plus she offered little encouragement. All that cum as much as you want shit.

“I should have just paid for a bj,” said John, embarrassed by his over ambitious estimation of his potency. Evidently his balls hadn’t been that blue after all. If he quit now he’d forked out fifty five quid for nothing. He could hardly ask for a refund. Feeling musty headed due to the joint he’d smoked earlier and her ennui saturating him, John tried to focus. A cigarette, then try and get hard again.

“Mind if I smoke?”


“Do you want one?” John fumbled in his coat pocket.

“No, I had one before you came in.” She handed him a heavy glass ashtray.

John perched on the edge of the bed smoking while she was sat upright next to him texting someone. Once she had sent the message she put the countdown back on screen. Thirty six minutes to go. He stubbed out the cigarette and turned to her. Begrudgingly she put the phone down on the bedside cabinet. John started kissing her tits, keeping a safe distance from her chemically aromatic pussy. In a spontaneous gesture that surprised John she stuck her tongue in his mouth and started to wank his prick. He felt a twinge and hope blossom.

“Nowt happening, your cock is dry as dust.”

“Suck it I felt something…”

“No point.”

“Just İstanbul Escort fucking suck it,” said John, his anger shocking both of them.

John was about to apologise and get dressed when she took his prick in her mouth. His cock responded and he was half hard again. John asked her to lick and suck his balls and she did so with more enthusiasm than before. Confident he was now sufficiently erect, John requested she sit on his cock. She relinquished his tool and looked horrified.

“You’ll have to put a condom on.”


She got off the bed and got a condom out the bedside cabinet, nervy and flustered. You’d think I was her first punter, thought John. He felt desolate. Am I so repellent even a sex worker cannot go through the motions mechanically with me, he wondered. It seemed so.

“I can’t open it,” she said, limply attempting to tear the wrapper. She threw it at him.

“You try.” The wrapper was a bastard to open John had to concede and by the time he had bitten a tear in it he was flaccid.

“Fuck it, just suck me off,” said John resignedly. Her face betrayed relief and down she went again. They were swiftly back in the groove.

“Stroke my balls.”

She squeezed his balls and John sensed the faint stirrings of an orgasm.

“That’s it…just use your mouth.”

She sucked the crown of his dick while massaging his nuts. John was fleetingly lost in erotic reverie, gently fucking her mouth. He was astonished by how she kept going and her lack of a gag reflex. John stretched on the bed moaning, and then, as if snapping awake from a short nap, was paralysed by self-consciousness and embarrassment. Sex wasn’t for the portly and unattractive like him, locked in this bathetic transactional embrace. About twenty minutes left, John figured.

She made a few slurping sounds and his cock contracted in her mouth. It really was in the head, sex, thought John as she softly moaned, quickening her momentum doubtlessly in the expectation he was going to ejaculate again. The second orgasm was exquisitely painful, like his banjo string had been pulled. She ingested her second load of semen off him, spluttering as she did so.

“Sorry for gagging there was a lot of saliva,” she said, deflating John’s ego, who thought her struggle was down to him shooting a voluminous second load. She flopped on the bed, her face ruddy with the physical effort.

“Phew, I’m knackered,” she said. John looked at her phone. Twelve minutes left, though it was an incidental detail now. All done, all bled out. John sprung up and dressed in a blur. He was rapidly out the front door with a curt, “See you, thanks.”

John heard the door slam shut behind him and torched a cigarette before descending the stairway.

On the tram, his balls truly drained, John couldn’t decide if he had dragged a partial victory from near impotent defeat, or at least a draw, or if, as with everything else in his life, he’d fucked it up. I have seen a sex worker and did not fuck her. John was consoled that his aged prick had conjured two climaxes in forty minutes but he’d paid to fuck and not done it and just had to accept the failure. His phone vibrated.

Did u enjoy it?

Yes thanks it was great, John replied.

Save my number and come back soon xx

Have done will text soon

It only just occurred to him neither knew the other’s name still. He’d stored her number in his contacts under the name of her town. John deleted it as the tram was pulling into the city centre.

John found her name out a couple of years later. He realised through his naiveté he had underappreciated her, though he’d only four more meetings with sex workers since and he was hardly well versed in the life, the little experience he had illustrated she was cheap, her flat was easy to locate and access, but most importantly a sex worker who did CIM was like gold dust, especially at a flat rate without charging it as a twenty pound extra. The local listings board had now removed all sex worker listings to comply with a digital sex trafficking act so he did a postcode search on a nationwide escort service site and there she was, Susie, 51 year old MILF. Friendly and loved to service members it claimed. The pics she’d put up on her original advert where on her escort profile along with some topless shots that cropped off head. He messaged her and was going to meet her but stuff got in the way and then a virus swept the globe. John increasingly felt like a walking haunted house, populated by the ghosts of his former selves and those dead or out of his life, and for the near future Susie would remain one of the more memorable phantoms.

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