INTIMACY – and the girlfriend experience

By rights, this should be all about sex. After all, my last post left the newly arrived Lilly rubbing Arnica into my backside, which was tender and throbbing following an afternoon of corporal punishment from three Mistresses. Surely, you might think, this whole scene had been carefully designed as a prelude to hot sex in crisp linen on an oversized hotel bed.

And so it had.

Indeed, we did have sex, and it was truly wonderful, but what I suspect this post is really going to be about is intimacy and, to use that horrible term, the “Girlfriend Experience”. I was interested in readers’ responses to that phrase in an earlier post, which described the little things Lilly does that make our connection feel more than merely transactional. People were both interested: “Oh, I hadn’t thought about that” and sceptical: “She’s acting, it’s a performance.” Lilly wrote a wonderful reply, questioning what might or might not be “real” about sexual interactions regardless of whether one person is being paid by the other.

On this occasion, our time together was steeped in the intimacy that, sadly, is no longer part of my home life and hasn’t been for years. It was utterly delicious and satisfied my deepest yearnings.

There was intimacy in her soft touch as she massaged cream into the bruises and welts on my backside, and in the brush of her leg against mine while she did do.

There was intimacy in our prolonged kiss when finally I sat up; in the drape of her arms over my shoulders and in the way we’d break off occasionally, smiling into each other’s eyes before kissing again.

There was returned intimacy in the massage I gave her, rubbing a light oil into her legs and her back with long, deep strokes of my hands, admiring the smooth rise and fall of her body as I did so.

Our interaction transitioned seamlessly from massage to foreplay and to slide first my fingers and then her vibrator and finally my cock inside her seemed both the most natural and most intimate thing in the world.

We drank the Hotel’s surprisingly good Prosecco and ate their surprisingly bad chocolates while we sat alongside each other in easy relaxation. Some sex workers seem bothered by silence, feeling the need to fill each conversational gap with bright chatter, but Lilly was content to sit there, her body touching mine as if by accident, as we came down from the intercourse. I felt completely comfortable in her presence and she showed no sign of discomfort in mine; it was just lovely to feel so close to someone.

The term “Girlfriend Experience” somehow cheapens this, turning my feelings of affection and companionship into a product which I’d bought. This is why I don’t like it, whatever the underlying truth in that description. Lilly is a sex worker. I’m her client. That doesn’t mean we can’t be intimate, can’t be touched by the things we do together, can’t feel connected. Mistress Elita expressed all these things beautifully when she posted about what a client was and was not to her. I don’t need Lilly to “pretend” to be my “Girlfriend,” not least because I’m twice her age and the very notion is ridiculous. I’m delighted to accept her as a sex worker and enjoy the seemingly unforced intimacy which she both shows to me and accepts from me when we are together. That is enough.

After we’d drank our wine, I spanked her as she lay across my thighs on the bed. I spanked her softly at first, then harder and eventually with my full force; yet even this violence was simultaneously full of tenderness and intimacy. I wasn’t spanking her as an exercise in dominance and submission but as a deliberate attempt to share with her an experience that I relish myself. “Look!” I was saying, “this is where sensual pain takes me. You might enjoy it too.” I watched as she immersed herself deeper and deeper in the sensations, muscles tensing; her breath quickening as I smacked her bottom; I watched just as closely as she relaxed and sighed in pleasure as I stroked the heat away, leaning forward to kiss her shoulder softly, murmuring: “You’re amazing, well done!” in her ear.

At the end, I laid her over a pillow and used my belt, a first for us. Initially I played with her fear, teasing with the belt, feinting with it, then gradually increased the force till I felt I had found that sweet spot where it was challenging but bearable, pushing up against her limits but not crossing them. Then I hit her ten times, making her count them. I used the length of the pause before she felt able to call out her anguished “One, thank you Sir” and the amount of tremor in her voice to judge the next blow. Bless her, she took them all, gasping out her shock at the last few strokes.

Afterwards, I lay still next to her for a while, whispering my wonder and appreciation, before slipping my fingers into her wet pussy and helping her come one last time, holding her tight to me as I did so.

How marvellous that she should choose to play these games with me.

She’s not my girlfriend. She’s not even pretending to be my girlfriend.

She’s a sex worker and I’m her client.

And I bloody love that.

More wickedness here: