The married men I’ve fucked, without divergence, have all been older than me, with beards. My therapist says it’s a Daddy issue, but my Father never had a beard in his life, and the idea of sleeping with him makes me throw up in my mouth a little.
A lot, really. I mean, I love my Dad, but I don’t love love my dad. Eugh.
Anyway, they’ve all been older, graying, with control issues. One of them liked me to wear leather boots and put him on his knees.
One of them liked to strap me to the bed with his neckties. His grown son liked to do that to me, too. Not that I told either of them they both had the same kink. Probably would’ve been a real mood killer, you know?
Well, the one with the leather fetish would get glassy-eyed and jerk off just to watch me strut around the hotel rooms where we met. I’d be naked except for little black lace panties and those big leather boots, and he’d sit in one of the plush chairs and take out his cock work it so hard I thought he was gonna snap it off. When I would get closer to him, he’d slow down, like he was mesmerized. I’d crawl on top of him and ride him til I heard his heart stutter — then I’d let him make me come. The sound of me always got him off.
Sometimes he’d phone, if we couldn’t meet up; we’d listen to one another in the small hours of the night.
Of all of them, I think I liked him the best; any of the rest of them, I could’ve been any one, anything, any old port in a storm — but not him. He liked to say my name. He liked to put his hands on me, and he loved to make me come. He was good at it, too.
When I’m with my latest, a bespoke three-piece-suit kind of guy with a penchant for lavender sissy-dresses and getting spanked, I still think about him sometimes. I think it’s because I miss the way he’d plead my name, like some kind of supplicant at the altar of a hungry goddess. It’s easy to get caught up, even for someone in my line of work.