Cheap LA whore

Long-distance relationships are always fraught, the sexual tension and release explosive, and you don't know the person in the same way as if you were in the same city dating every day. Still, I met a man once who made me abandon my caution.

I still remember when we both had business in Los Angeles, and of course I couldn't be truthful to him about what my real business there was. We shared a room at a hotel near LAX that had once been top-of-the-line but was just on the edge of shabby. After pulling off the bedspread, on which ultraviolet would expose countless semen stains of strangers, we were naked on clean, soft sheets. Just the kissing and feel of our bodies totally touching from head to toe had me about to come. Which I did when he climbed on top and fucked me, first in missionary, then with my legs scissored in front of his chest (weird, different feeling!), him leaning close and pinioning my legs with his arms (knees at elbows) and then a long big nasty with my legs over his shoulders as he thrust into me while turning his head to kiss my ankles. Whenever I could, I would look down to see his cock going into me, one of my biggest visual turn-ons.

"I'm a cheap LA whore," I teased, an indeed I was wearing sheer black stockings and garter and being impaled in a crappy hotel room. He wouldn't go there. "You are not," he said, telling me how attractive and wonderful I was. I joked, but perhaps there was something behind the words and perhaps he sensed it.

Yes, I am a slut and must be tough in my professional life. But I had really fallen for this man. He was smart and kind, cleaned up well, had a stimulating range of interests and could always make me laugh with a very dry sense of humor. I had that most dangerous feeling a woman can have: A vision for us. (And maybe some men are as vulnerable). Yet he had been hurt very badly in his recently ended marriage and was wary (even though he never gave me an angry revenge fuck against the ex — he spoke kindly of her). The sex was great and I went with it. But 'though slut that I am, I wanted more. I didn't want to be just his transitional lover.

In bed, we talked until his cock was recovered, and then I worked my way down his chest, kissing his body and rubbing my pert breasts and nipples against him. Stationed between his legs, I licked and sucked him for half an hour until he had another big orgasm. He had the strongest stream of come of any lover I'd had, and even with the second orgasm I got a nice treat.

Then he gave me a working over: Long time kissing and fondling and sucking my breasts. Then I swear he played my pussy for an hour, bringing me right to the edge and pulling back, over and over. At one point, he was lightly rubbing my perineum with one finger while (I learned later) using two fingers to make a "U" motion at the bottom of my pussy, all while tongue-worshipping me. All I could manage was a moan of "What are you doooooing?" before I exploded. It was the most amazing feeling.

We fucked five more times over the next 15 hours before we got on our planes and went different directions. He got married two years later. I won't say/admit it broke my heart. The sex was great and maybe we got the best either had to give at that time.