SuperDamXperience

Chapter 17 of The Amsterdam Diaries

I slept well.  And so I should have. When I eventually got into Amsterdam at 8.20pm last night I set about having serial sex with four women. That’s enough to make anyone tired.

I kicked off with over an hour with Ruby. I needn’t have worried about the kissing when we made that movie. She was OK with it. She is now a full real girlfriend experience. I particularly like it when we are in the doggy position and she has to twist her head to the side so that I can reach her mouth. I also like kissing her when we are lying side by side and I am playing with her bumhole.  After Ruby, I saw a very cute Romanian girl (another real girlfriend experience, including anal). After that, I needed to rest for a while and have something to eat.

Then it was back to the steegs and the straats to see a Bulgarian girl who is generally reckoned to be ‘only OK’ according to guys who write about her on the review sites. I licked her to orgasm (and Ruby and the Romanian girl before her); if I’m not careful I’ll become tongue tied. I’m working on turning her into (a) excellent and (b) a full real girlfriend experience. Then it was over to De Singelgebied (for research) where I had an unexpectedly good time with a very cute girl; I don’t usually get to make a girl cum on a first date, or take photos for that matter but I managed both. Then it was back to De Wallen for a sexy night-cap with one of the girls in the streets which connect the canals. She has been on my maybe list for quite a while. It turned out to be a quite sensational encounter given that I think she may once have been a man.

I’m not always this lucky. During the last visit I was taken advantage of by a window girl over in the alleys. I got my own back yesterday. I was passing the scene of the crime some time past midnight and there were guys outside weighing her up. She was primping and preening and strutting inside. As I passed, I said, “Keep away from her. She’s trouble.” It just came out of my mouth, totally uninvited. I must have conjured up just the right amount of he knows what he’s talking about (gravitas) because as I walked on, I heard them behind me: “He says leave it. She’s trouble.” That’s much more satisfying than identifying her on the Internet and just hoping that someone takes notice. Heaven knows I want to! I guess I love only most of the alley cats!

Despite my personal run-in with a crook masquerading as alley cat I think it’s a crying shame that the local politicians plan to close this part of the red light district. It is hot, sweaty, atmospheric and iconic. It’s the narrow alleyways that mean that you have to be careful not to appear to be taking sexual advantage of the guy coming towards you that makes it what it is – up close and personal! The girls hang out of the doorways on balmy summer nights and interact with the human tide. Mostly it’s what looks like young single guys handing over their pay cheques to hot girls in their twenties; they are glad of the attention. Their egos are filled to overflowing. How do I know? I’ve been there. I’ve talked to them.

Actually, at the time I was engaged in the pedestrian activity of counting windows. There were 124 windows with girls in them as I passed. Assuming that a further 10% were with clients, the working population was around 136 girls. Anyway, after the night that I have had, I don’t deserve to be up for breakfast, never mind walking straight. But I was. Better late than never, late for me that it is. I limped into the restaurant at about 10.30 am.

I wasn’t sure how to handle the day. I wasn’t feeling any really negative side effects from the serious workout that I had engaged in the day before, except for aching (in a very comfortable way) just about everywhere. I figured that I would probably see just one girl. However, since it was only 11.30 am by the time that I finished eating, I had time to kill whatever I did. I decided to go out with the camera and try to capture some images to use on my website. I’d start by replicating the ones that I had borrowed from the Internet after a Google Image search. Actually, there wasn’t much more that I could do. It passed the time; indeed, it took a bit more time than I would have liked because I had to keep waiting for pedestrians to get out of shot. When it became clear that I wasn’t going to add significantly to my stock of images by hanging around, I dropped the camera off at the hotel and set off up The Damrak to Central station.

On the way I passed the usual living statues. They seem to be getting worse. One inventive soul had placed a box on the ground and propped a piece of card against it. It read: have your picture taken with the invisible man. And there were people doing just that, posing alongside the box; literally money for nothing. Further on, I passed an old woman sitting on a stool with an accordion slung round her neck. She was gently squeezing the sound box to make a breathy, near asthmatic noise. Her right hand hovered over the top two keys. Another invitation for passers by to part with their money for no return – other than the warm, cosy feeling associated with giving. Further along, I came across a young woman performing the same trick. She, however, added some value by actually pressing the top two keys alternately.

At the station I went to one of the vending machines and bought my ticket to Schipol. I do this so that if I am pressed for time at the point of departure I can avoid one potential hold up. While I was standing there waiting for the machine to dispense, a young woman came up and asked me if I could help her. She was travelling to Paris. She had a train ticket but she was under the impression that she needed to purchase a platform ticket too. That’s not the case. I led her through the barriers (always open) and pointed in the direction of her platform. She seemed grateful for the insight and the help.

Outside the station, I pushed a Viagra out of its little foil blister and swallowed it. I find that they work very quickly on an empty stomach but need a little longer when they go down on top of a generous breakfast. Did I need it? Who knows; it wouldn’t do any harm, and I have been known to collapse for no reason mid-assignation. And that wasn’t part of my plan today.

On Friday night I had watched a TV showing of the film Quadraphenia. Apart from passing the time, I was surprised, interested and entertained to see the seriously young versions of a lot of well known middle-aged English actors. Anyway, coincidentally, as I approached The Dam a couple of young guys (late teens/early twenties) approached in the bike lane riding pimped scooters – and wearing sharp 3-button mod suits. It felt like it could become the look.

Ah, yes, the plan. A plan started to form. I would play safe. This would entail visiting one of the Asian girls over in Tromeptersteeg for a massage followed by fifteen minutes of what I hoped would be easy, uncomplicated sex. After all, all I’ve got to do is lie there for fifteen minutes, then have a suck and fuck in two positions. Who knows, it might be good enough to do it again one day. Of course, by the time that I had returned to the hotel and packed my bag (ready for a quick exit later) my plan had morphed into: better see one new girl before the massage as a kind of pre-match warm up, add her to my list of experiences, and get in the mood. This would require me to make a least one complete pass of the area, a fairly pleasant and purposeful way to pass twenty minutes or so. A Hungarian girl in Molensteeg tried to get me to go in. I had passed her window yesterday afternoon and I stopped and talked (only to be polite). I made the excuse that I had just arrived and that I was looking round. She was seriously chubby, but not in an inviting way. She wouldn’t meet my requirements most days, especially not today.

“Maybe later?”

“Yes, maybe later.”

As is often the case, not many girls caught my eye. There was one pretty girl who looked like my type. I have realised that although I spread my favours over different nationalities, ages and ethnicities, and see blondes and brunettes and tall girls and short girls and girls with natural breasts and girls with breast implants, girls who give me the come-on, and girls who give me the fuck-off, I do favour ‘a type’. And interestingly, the ‘type’ seems to favour me. However, the girl in question had looked at me with passive indifference as I had passed her window, and unlike during the rainy season when they are keen to get the rent money, there was no window tapping soundtrack to accompany my walk, not even from the thick Latinas over near the church.

After completing my circuit it was a toss-up between trekking back to Miss-Indifferent’s window or sticking to plan A and going for the Thai massage.  What the heck, if Miss-Indifferent wasn’t keen we’d just have to tough it out for fifteen minutes. A couple of minutes later I was bearing down on her window. She looked at me quizzically from behind the glass. I simulated knocking on it from a metre away. She opened the door and peered round it.

“Hi. What do you charge?”

Her face lit up. Suddenly she was all smiles. I thought of the girl over on De Singelgebied last night who had explained that she gets a lot of time wasters coming to the window. I guess that I had made the transition from probable time waster to possible client.

“Forty euros.”

“And what do you do?”

“Suck  and fuck. ….. And positions …..Twenty minutes.”

It seemed to me that she was keen to get my custom Fortyeurossuck’n’fucknposition’n’twennyminutes is window speak for I want to get you across the threshold and make some money.

“And do you take your top off?”

Frankly, I didn’t care one way or the other. I was just making conversation.

“Sure.”

“Where are you from?”

This wasn’t important either.

“I’m from Italy.”

No opportunity to practise foreign languages today, then.

“That sounds great. Can I come in?”

She let me in, closed her curtain, ushered me through a door and then set about climbing a narrow flight of stairs. She let me follow her, which is quite unusual. And what I didn’t know was that this was about to become one of my best experiences in Amsterdam to date. As soon as we were in the room, I counted out forty euros and gave it to her. She stripped. She’s really pretty in a very feminine sort of way and she has a beautiful slender but curvy figure. She has natural breasts; not small, not large, just right.

“Oh, look at you. You are soooo beautiful. My God, I don’t believe this. Come here. Let me hold you.”

She came across and we cuddled. She put her hands on my shoulders and I explored her shape, her waist, and her arse.  This is always a good sign.

“Turn round so that I can feel those beautiful breasts.”

She twirled and stepped back onto me and I cupped one breast in each hand. Her breasts are simply a nice handful; no more, no less.

“Oh, they are gorgeous, so soft.”

Of course they are soft, what else could they be? The point is that I am telling her that she is fabulous.

“Ummm, exquisite.”

She pressed against me harder as I gently squeezed them. Green light! GO! I turned her to face me.

“Look, why don’t I give you another forty euros and we make this a forty-minute session.”

“You want forty minutes? Why don’t you wait and see? Try it first and see if you like it.”

I wasn’t sure if this was altruism on her part or me getting the brush off, like she thought that she had already made a mistake. To know that I have forty minutes means that I will pace things differently. I’m usually able to weigh up the likelihood of a good session on these first few minutes and will often buy extra time straight away.

“OK. Up to you. But best to put a condom on me straight away, then we won’t have to stop.”

She selected one and got ready to apply it.

“Do you want this pulled back?”

“Yes, please,”

She drew the foreskin back, stretched the condom with the fingers of two hands, and smothered me with it. It felt a bit tight.

“Is this a small condom?”

Sometimes the girls select them and they are uncomfortable.

“No. It’s standard. They go on dicks this big.”

She used both hands to show me. I hope for her sake that she was exaggerating. I got the impression that she was ready to get stuck into the suck; the issue seemed to be (for her) whether I wanted to stand or lie down for it. I, however, had other plans. I was working on the assumption of having a forty-minute session (at least), irrespective of the size of my down payment. I led her over to the bed, invited her to lie down and relax and then climbed onto the bed beside her. We were positioned so that I could get at her with my strong hand. I find that if I can play with a girl for a minute or two, just engaging in erotic touching she will become very accommodating indeed. Fingers trailed over her body, gently grazing each erogenous zone: breasts, waist, stomach, inner thighs, vulva, arse (with five erogenous zones of its own immediately open to me). I took her right hand with my free hand and guided it between my legs.

“Be very gentle, Honey, just like I’m touching you. If you squeeze them you can kill me, so be very, very gentle.”

I’m not sure that I would actually die but I think that I might feel as though I want to. She played the five legged spider to perfection. Her eyes closed and she looked as though she was drifting off, sinking into the mattress. She made tiny sounds to tell me that my touching was working. Then it was two hands all over her. I guess that I spent the best part of five minutes just teasing and touching. Then I spent an equally generous amount of time sucking her tits; first one, then the other, making the nipples hard and long. My hand kept up a steady dialogue with her crotch as I did it.

“Beautiful, absolutely beautiful.”

I was referring to her tits.

“I don’t like them.”

I was surprised.

“Why not?”

Instead of waiting for an answer (twat!), I told her how wonderful they were, their shape and size, the beautiful puffy aureoles and the position of the aureole and the nipple, which were resting slightly high on the breast, producing the classic puppy-nose. I told her how so many of the girls spoil their breasts with implants, and here she was with gorgeous natural breasts. I talk a lot. Maybe too much. I really should have asked her what her problem was. Instead, I decided to play the scale of 1 – 10 game. I traced my fingers lightly over her upper arm.

“Does that feel nice?”

“Yes, it feels nice.”

“OK, on a scale of one to ten we’ll call that a five.

“How about this?”

I treated her left breast to some erotic touching.

“One is poor, five is OK, ten is very good. Where are we on the scale?”

“It’s better than five.”

I’ve noticed this before. The girls walk round the actual numbers. Maybe it’s a girl thing. We played the same game with her stomach, her inner thighs and then her pussy. She figured that having her pussy played with was probably up there with the best sensations, but still no numbers.

“I’m actually most sensitive here.”

She put her right index finger over the hood of her clitoris. I think that she thought that I really didn’t know about the magic spot called the clitoris. Not know? I worship it. I take communion at The Church of Clitoris.

“I know, Honey, and I intend to play with it. I intend to play with it a lot, but not just yet.”

I told her to turn over onto her stomach and then cooked the other side. Shoulders, back, waist, the cheeks of her arse, the crack in her arse, the backs of her legs, and then settled down into a gentle and lengthy massage of her pussy.

“Do you do massage?”

“No, just touching.”

“That’s a pity because you have good hands.”

I’ve been told that before – more than a few times. (Nice hands, shame about the face!)

“OK, it’s time for your most sensitive spot!”

She rolled over onto her back and opened her legs – wide and expectant, a bit greedy, even. She has a very pretty pussy. The gash is small and the labia are obvious but not pronounced. First, I massaged her vulva with the flat of my hand, then I stimulated the clitoris using the rubbing and circular motions that I’d observed in countless online girl-masturbates-solo videos and then settled down to teasing the slit with the flat of my middle finger. No hurry. Take my time. Just keep up a steady rhythm. Just the right pressure. I know it’s the right pressure. I’ve had a lot of practice and a lot of feedback. She’s naturally wet; it’s a silky wetness. Finger inside her. Just the one. It seems that one is all she needs (but she will get two in a minute). Actually, all most girls seem to need is one finger. And then I gently stimulated her. I interpreted the understated purring as yes this is working. Usually, I will ask before I lick but sometimes it doesn’t seem necessary. Keeping the finger moving steadily, I changed position slightly, bent over and began kissing the clitoral hood.

“Ummmm.”

I’ll take that as another yes. I figured that it would be OK to go wet. So I began to lick her to the soundtrack ummmm. Nice as this was, it needed a change of position. I shifted so that I was able to kneel down in front of her, between her legs. No finger.

“This is for me, just for a minute. I want to enjoy you, but then I’ll try to make it nice for you.”

I have to say that this was going remarkably well for a first date. Twenty minutes ago we didn’t even know each other! I took generous mouthfuls of her. Let’s be honest, I was treating her vulva like a mouth. I was down there kissing her (quite passionately). When I did decide to lick, it was with the flat of my tongue. I’ve got a few techniques (and that twatty butterfly lick isn’t one of them) but my advice is, if in doubt, use the flat of the tongue over the maximum area. Her right hand came down immediately and put pressure on the flesh just above the clitoral hood; she pulled it back to full stretch. My, oh, my! I guess this little girl is very, very horny.

I made sure that the gash, the clitoris and the hood all got a fair share of tongue. Back and forth, regular strokes, sometimes using the inside of my lower lip to follow through on the clitoris (it’s softer and smoother than my tongue). And it enables me to swallow from time to time. It wasn’t long before the gentle moaning started and I increased the pace and pressure a little and slipped a finger back inside her. She started to tense and grind. The more she tensed and the harder she pressed against my mouth the faster I moved, running my tongue back and forth over her clitoris. By the end I was licking at what might be described as a furious rate. There was no crying out but the violent grinding and bucking told me I’d got a result, and if I needed it, the hand pushing my head away was confirmation.

I sat up and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Was that OK?”

“Very.”

“Sure?”

“Sure!”

“I want to fuck you. I want to know what you feel like.”

I pretty much fell on her and entered hands-free.

“I’m not doing this to come. I just want to use you for a few minutes.”

Her legs were wide open. They were pulled back towards her chest. My arm was under her neck. Her arms were round my neck, pulling me towards her. And suddenly we were kissing. Not small, tentative, exploratory kisses, but huge, deep, hungry, almost violent kisses. And best of all, they were seriously wet, dirty kisses. We explored each other’s mouths with lips and tongues, taking it in turns to use and be used.  The fucking was desperate; almost animal. But I was completely in control (of my ejaculation bits!). It was a nice contrast to my experience with Ruby yesterday. Ruby is definitely a dry-kisser. She does soft, romantic kissing even when we are fucking furiously. Obviously, I take her mouth a little harshly from time to time, as it pleases me, but I’m careful not to overdo it.

And all the time I am thinking to myself: what the fuck is going on here? You really do not expect this on a first date with a modest forty euro down payment. I stopped, withdrew, and sat back on my heels. This wasn’t over by a long way.

“We’ll have to finish soon. The twenty minutes are nearly up.”

How does she know that? Is there a clock somewhere that I can’t see? My internal clock tells me that we are well past thirty minutes.

“Don’t worry. I’ll give you more money.”

She just accepted that I would give her more money. Even the girls who know me well usually ask for the money up front. Trust. But can I really be trusted?

“Let me finger you some more.”

My plan was to finger her steadily, go up a gear, finger her some more and then really go up a gear. It seems to work! Especially if the girl helps.

“You’ll have to help me, tell me what’s working and if you want it faster or harder or slower.”

I eased two fingers inside her and started to stroke the vaginal wall steadily, at (as best as I could tell) the root of her clitoris. I was no sooner in there than she took me at my word and started helping me. Her left hand came down to stretch the clitoral hood and pull it tight, and then her right hand came down to rub herself. It seemed to me that she was focussing on an area beside the clitoris (she is a girl without a pronounced clitoris). She established a fairly fast masturbation speed and I set about matching it. The finger technique changed to accommodate it but I could tell that I was still stimulating the root of her clitoris. She felt wonderfully fleshy inside. It didn’t take long before she started moaning and writhing and pulling faces; eyes shut, seriously distressed. And then her phone rang.

“I would just ignore that if I was you.”

She probably didn’t need much encouragement.

“Yes, it’s coming, it’s coming.”

I used my free hand to touch her tits.

Her rubbing becoming furious for a minute and then she eased off a bit.

“You need to be stronger now.”

“You want it faster and harder?”

“Yes.”

So that is what she got. I stepped it up a gear and then another. All the while she worked on herself, the same furious rubbing with the tips of her fingers like before. I could feel her pulsing. My fingers were riding over muscles which were clearly going into spasm. And the moans became anguished cries. She sounded as though she was in pain. This must be the climax, so I gave it some more. Yes, she was definitely pulsing but we obviously hadn’t got there yet because she carried on rubbing herself, maybe more furiously than before. I could hear guys talking in the street quite clearly. The windows were open behind the drawn curtain blinds. Surely if I could hear them, they could hear her as she started to cry out. It was a combination of moans and whimpering and shouts and screaming; and it was fucking loud – and a lot of it. I’m thinking this must be it. I’m also worried about what the neighbours are making of all this noise. And I give it one last gargantuan increase in pace. If she doesn’t come soon, my fucking arm is going to fall off.

“Come on, Honey, come on. Come for me. I want to see what you look like when you come.”

Somehow I managed to say this quietly, almost softly. I was reminded of a scene in the book Fifty Shades Darker (from the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy), where the hero (a Christian Grey) incites his lover (Anastasia) to come using the line, “Come on, give it to me.” Which I still think is a shit line! This is taking its toll. I have been fingering her for several minutes and I’m feeling the strain of keeping up this frenetic speed. She has my middle two fingers sliding in and out of her, but the rest of my hand is in the shape of a fist. I have been effectively punching her between the legs for all of that time. And she’s taking it, and getting off on it and completely losing control.

“Enough, enough! That’s enough!”

She let herself go and lay there, her left hand clasped to her forehead, like someone nursing a serious headache. She looked decidedly flushed. And damp. We both were. I had beads of sweat on my forehead. It had taken one hell of an effort but it felt worth it. I remember reading in a prostitute’s memoirs how a client cooled her after her orgasm by blowing gently on her vulva. So that’s what I did. I have no idea whether it worked or not. Obviously I should have asked, but I was feeling a bit smug and overlooked the opportunity to get feedback. When I thought that she was probably cool enough, I sat back on my heels. She opened her eyes and looked up at me.

“That was definitely an eleven!”

It took me a second to understand. It seems that girls can think in terms of numbers after all! I moved her leg. She was just laid there, legs wide open, as though she had been used and the casually discarded on the bed.  I lay down beside her. I placed an arm under her neck and shared the pillow. She turned onto her side and snuggled up against me. Just like a girlfriend. A perfect fit. Her body seem to melt into mine. THIS IS (FUCKING) CRAZY!

“How old are you?”

“I’m twenty.”

“And where are you from in Italy.”

“I’m from Napoli.”

“Oh, I know it. I’ve been there. And Pompeii and Sorrento. I didn’t like it much.”

“No? Why not?”

“I think probably because my brief visit included a not-so-nice part of town.”

Then her phone rang again. She answered it this time. I casually stroked her tits while she talked. When the call ended I asked her who it was.

“My boyfriend.”

OK, I admit it. I get off on having sex with someone else’s girlfriend. If we are in the same room together, I double get off! She started to tell me what the conversation had been about. It was sufficiently jumbled that I can’t begin to recount it, but I got the impression that it had something to do with her boyfriend and a mutual acquaintance and a misunderstanding. And all the while she was talking I was thinking about what I had been doing to some guy’s girlfriend.

“And is it a serious relationship?”

“Yes.”

“And will you marry him?”

“I’m thinking that he’s the one I will marry.”

“And is he Moroccan or Turkish?”

I was thinking of the stereotypical window-girl boyfriend.

“No. I don’t like Moroccans. I don’t let them come in.”

She paused.

“Or black men.”

I’m sure that there are people out there who would perceive these sentiments as racist but I can’t help feeling that under the circumstances (like deciding who gets to fuck you) that a girl should be able to make choices.

“And do you have a plan? Do you, say, intend to earn enough money to start your own business?”

“Yes, I know what I want to do. My mother inherited a house from her mother and there is a small shop with it. My mother has given the shop to me. But I need a lot of money. It will cost about €70,000 just to get started.”

Her decision to become a prostitute was influenced by the desire to earn hard cash – a lot of it – and quickly. She’s enterprising. I wish her well. And I’m pleased that my euros are going towards such a worthwhile project. However, I can’t help feeling that she would reach her target more quickly if she recognised that she is a €50 girl, no question. Maybe when I came to the door she thought that I was from the tax office and was just handing out a piece of misinformation.

“How do you feel? Recovered?”

On reflection (a few days later), I shouldn’t have bothered letting her recover. I should have fucked her as soon as I had stopped fingering her. But then I would have known less about her. I kissed her. She kissed me back. It was a big, soft, sloppy, wet, sensual kiss.

“Yes, I’m fine. The first one is nice but the second is always stronger and the third is always very strong.”

Fuck! No wonder it was such hard work. I thought that I was fingering her to a climax. The little bitch rolled through three back-to-back orgasms, a Triple O. That is an Amsterdam first! For me, anyway.

“I prefer sex with older men. The young men are too, too, er, get in and finish quickly. Too much straight for it.”

I think she was trying to describe the Wham Bam Thank You Mam approach to sex. However, to be fair, if you have the regulation fifteen minutes for (usually) fifty euros it does tend to focus the mind. I didn’t ask (I should have), but I got the impression that ‘young men’ referred to those in their twenties (i.e. most of the punters slopping around outside). So someone twice her age must be (in her terms) really very, very (seriously fucking) old. Actually, when I got home I read an article in The Sunday Times Style Magazine about tantric sex. The guy writing said: “As a modern twentysomething man, I kid myself that I “know sex”. I am one of the liberated, cocksure “new men”, supposedly tuned into women’s needs  …… but frankly, I always felt that I was missing something.” Yup, you and all of the other twenty-somethings, mate. And you don’t need tantric sex to put it right.

“Are you married?”

I settled for a straight forward answer.

“No. Just as well, really. If I was, I probably wouldn’t get to fuck as many twenty-year olds as I do.”

My usual answer to this question, however, is, “No, she’s dead,” even though she isn’t. Divorce seems ….. so failure.

“Children?”

“Four.”

“Four?”

I’m always surprised at the incredulous reaction that this gets. It’s as though it’s a serious measure of potency. (Or maybe I don’t look old enough.) It was easy, actually; the children would blush if they knew how casually they were conceived.

“How old are you?”

“Guess.”

She guessed and got it wrong. Most young women get it wrong, and by quite a lot. I decide to agree. Her misconception may have been influenced a little by my cock in her cunt, her taking me into her as though her life depended upon the intensity of the fuck, and the way that our faces were glued together by a wet sticky, sexy mess concocted from our own secret recipe, but I am clearly quite a bit older than her. Obviously age isn’t the issue that feminist journalists would have us believe.  They seem obsessed by age difference and notions of appropriateness. I can’t help feeling that they are motivated by a large measure of jealousy; a young woman’s stock is high while theirs is transparently and inevitably in decline.

Yesterday, I treated Ruby to a ten minute fuck from behind and it had the effect of driving her into being a little bit crazy. I thought that I would pull the same stunt with my new friend. I stepped off the bed and positioned the pillow on the edge. Then I made her lay across the bed (over the pillow) on her tummy, her feet on the floor and slightly apart so that I could find her hole easily. Actually, I didn’t do a very good job of it.

“That’s my something or other.”

The word was obviously Italian and I suspect that it meant bumhole. She helped me to get it right. The beds (on the whole) are a good height for climbing onto but a little too low for this particular manoeuvre. However, I get it to work after a fashion. If I spread my legs in a V shape I can drop my height so that my cock penetrates at right angles to my body – a table, a desk or a work bench would work better. Once in, I set to work for ten minutes. And when I say ten minutes I really do mean ten minutes. I began stroking in and out of her steadily at what I would describe as a very lazy wank speed. She grabbed onto the edge of the mattress, as though that might prevent her from slipping off the bed. And I, the human metronome, maintained a near perfect rhythm. It didn’t take very long before she started moaning and making those delicious noises which sound like a response to something painful. Apparently, the very aggressive finger fucking that we had engaged in really gets the blood rushing to the right bits. A blood-gorged pussy is very responsive to penile stimulation after that. So, all you guys who think that you could use another inch or two, think about approach work and technique instead. And cut your finger nails!!!!

For exactly ten minutes she lay under me moaning, whimpering, and experiencing what sounded like unbearable pleasure. If I had been hurting her, her sounds would have meant: please stop; you’re hurting me; please don’t hurt me any more; please, I’m begging you not to do this to me any more. As it was, the sounds meant: please don’t stop; you’re creating the most incredible sensations between my legs; please don’t tease me – do it harder and faster; please, I’m begging you to really fuck me. I didn’t listen. I continued to keep the pace restrained and even.

Just to help her along, from time to time I raked her back and the cheeks of her arse with my nails, (filed and manicured in preparation for my internal work this weekend). I also slapped her beautiful little arse in time with each thrust between her legs. And from time to time, I reflected on the fact that I was doing this to some guy’s girlfriend. And I was thinking of all the other ways that I could enjoy her in future and all of the things that I could do to her and with her. And just before I stepped off her, I grabbed a handful of her hair and eased her head back so that her spine was arched. I understand that the attraction of this pose to the male is the symbolic representation of a woman experiencing orgasm. Whatever, it works for me. Her job is to get into positions. My job is to penetrate her pleasure centres. We both seem to do our jobs well. She came back like a horse being reigned in. It is a piece of sex-theatre. We both played it like that.

After exactly ten minutes, I stopped and told her to lay full length on the bed on her tummy. She misunderstood me and ended up kneeling in preparation for a dog-fuck. I thought, why not. Actually, I thought that I might just as well spend a minute or two kneeling behind her and licking between her legs before getting back to fucking. I went down, but stayed only long enough to give it a couple of soft, gentle kisses. It was pretty smelly down there. Her arse was too smelly to just tough it out. Normally, when I’m pretty certain that this will be one of the routines, I get the girl to wash her back bottom before we start. That hadn’t been the case today and the room didn’t have a bidet (although there was a washbasin). Actually, I will even stop what we are doing and ask the girl to wash – I’m that confident. At this moment, however, it wasn’t important. What I really wanted was to be inside her. It made me think, though, just how stupidly cavalier I had been yesterday when I had spent a generous amount of time rimming Ruby.

I pretended that Doggy was what I was after all along.  Arse too high. She manoeuvred for me until I was able to dock. Why do the girls never get this right? What is it that you other fuckers are encouraging them to think of as normal? Maybe it’s just that my thighs are abnormally short. This however, was not my planned destination either. After a minute, I moved us on.

“Keep me inside you and lie on your tummy.

“Now close your legs and trap me.

“Now I can kiss you.”

She grinned, turned her head to the side, opened her mouth and glued herself to me. I love the sensation of lying on a girl’s soft arse while I’m fucking her. But I love the sensation of her fucking me back more. I supported myself on my forearms so that I could give her room to move. And she did. She fucked me back, pushing her arse into the air to receive each of my thrusts. She was obviously getting off on it. I was definitely getting off on it. I wish that I understood the mechanics and physics of this position so that I could work it even further to my advantage. If I did, maybe I could bring to fucking what master chefs bring to cooking.

Interesting idea, because I do tend to look at sex as a menu to work through – and we are not thinking burger and fries. There are definitely starters, main courses (I hate the word MAINS) and desserts. I quite like cheese and port to finish. I can handle soup and a starter. I like a fish dish before the meat dish. Working the wines for the different dishes is an art. And I like it when I’m served something savoury even before I have ordered. And if there is a bit of theatre with any of the dishes, I’m up for that. Yup, sex and food are definitely complimentary digressions for the sensate. I sneaked a look at my watch. I’d been there an hour and five minutes. Pretty soon, within the next fifteen minutes, I was going to have to make a move. I needed to check out of the hotel and head for the airport.

“If I carry on, I’ll lose it. Let me rest for a minute and then we’ll finish in missionary.”

This wasn’t strictly true but I wanted her to think that she was pushing me over the edge. We untangled and went back to lying together. I suddenly realised that although I had paid for a suck and a fuck, I hadn’t actually had the suck. I also realised that I had gone limp. So limp, the condom was coming off. That happens quite often on these marathon romps. It suddenly goes.

“Oh, dear, you’ll need to make me stiff. How about sucking? We haven’t done that and I would be interested to know how well you do it.”

Cheeky cunt.

And I was hoping that she would suck me without the condom. I had the offer yesterday from the first girl who I saw and I declined. Today, now, with this girl – I would be prepared to let common sense desert me for a minute or two. I thought I saw her weighing the options. I thought I saw her take the decision to do the sensible thing. She replaced the condom and took the limp little thing that had been pleasuring her so manfully for the last hour and started to breath some life back into him. She’d hardly got my cock into her mouth when it went back to life size. She was caught by surprise. She’d easily taken all of me into her mouth and now it was rather full. She laughed.

“Have you been taking medicine?”

She was joking.

“Viagra.”

I wasn’t joking. She laughed some more.

“Well, I’ve been very busy for the last twenty-four hours. I find that under the circumstances, it helps.”

The particular circumstances in this instance being five girls yesterday. As I had explained to one of them, the fixed costs of a visit to Amsterdam are quite high; it makes sense to think in terms of a fuck festival, not a €50 suck and fuck. That, however, takes its toll. Whatever, I got the suck that I had paid for. And it was very nice. Normally (because I have paid for it – and sometimes when I haven’t) I would turn her round into a 69 so that I could play with her while she sucked. Obviously, today that would have been toxic.

“Time to finish, Honey.”

And not because I wanted to. In real life, I think that we had at least another two hours of play-time. We changed places and she went onto her back. I moved her a little further down the bed so that we didn’t crash into the wall behind her, and I removed the pillow so that I could control her better. Then I climbed onto her. And pushed into her. Quite roughly. The sub-text was that this was no longer about making love and her pleasure. This was about fucking and me getting what I wanted; and for the next few minutes she was simply going to be used. The lover with the kind hands was taking a break.

Nevertheless, this is still a game. And she adapted to the new game immediately. We set about tasting every square millimetre of each other’s mouths; the kisses were gluey and wet. She used her tongue. She buried it deep and hard like her own little knife. It was almost as though she was trying to mirror what I was doing to her down below.  The whole thing was primal. Animal. Urgent. I’m holding her hair, restraining her, forcing myself on her. The pressure on our mouths is brutal, as is the stabbing between her legs and the pressure of my body against hers. And all the while we are bleeding sex-saliva over each other’s faces.  And all the while, I’m wondering what is going on inside this beautiful girl’s head. She’s letting me do this to her. She’s encouraging me. She’s kissing me like she never wants to let me go and she’s pulling me into her. This shouldn’t be possible. This shouldn’t be happening. She’s gorgeous and I have a face like a swamp mutant. All I have going for me are nice hands for fuck’s sake! Maybe it’s the mutant face that’s the attraction. Maybe she was just doing it out of kindness. Maybe she was just curious about what it is like to be fucked by a creature that is half-man half-animal. Well now she knows. And if it hadn’t been for that smell, I would have been snaking a hand round to her arse.

I’ve been lucky this weekend. I have fucked and fucked and fucked and not once have I been seriously threatened with an ejaculation that I’m not ready for. But now time is pressing and I need to draw this to a conclusion. I talked through the punishment that I was giving her mouth. If we don’t both have severely bruised lips at the end of this, it will be a miracle.

“Put your legs down.”

She didn’t understand me. She thought that I wanted her to lie prone on the bed, legs together, trapping me inside her.

“No, just down, heels on the bed, but keep your legs open.”

She relaxed her legs and I put all of my weight onto her, continuing to thrust in and out of her hole. The change of position, the new tightness and the sensations it produced caught her by surprise.

“Ohhhhhhh!”

It did it for me too. If she had understood this part of the game too, and started to fuck me back, I would have died and gone to heaven. Instead, she just lay there and let me use her. But she’s only twenty (maybe only just). I will teach her. So much to do. So many women to reach. She held me to her and between (frankly) brutal mouthfuls of her, I talked me up to an orgasm.

“I’m not doing this for you any more (you dirty little bitch). I’m doing it for me. I’m just using the space between your legs until I lose it … (and explode inside your deliciously tight little twenty-year old cunt).”

Obviously, the stuff in brackets is purely thoughts for my own consumption. OK, not so pure, I know. That’s why I kept them hidden inside my head instead of letting them tumble out of my mouth and into hers. Conditioning, you see. I’ve been condition to be careful about the use of some words. Even the conversation with Ruby yesterday hadn’t helped me. I had asked her if she objected to my use of the word cunt to describe the space between her legs. She looked at me blankly and shrugged an up-to-you shrug. To her the word is just a sound, not a naughty sound.

“And now  …. I’m .…  almost …. there …. I want to …. come in your …. mouth …. and …. on your …. face  … and …. in your arse …. and on your hair … I want to fuck every inch of you! I want to fuck you so hard that (I hurt you) ……..your cunt is so soft.”

Finished.

Yesterday, I had explained to Ruby that when I say that stuff it’s just dirty sex talk in the last few seconds. I really do want to do all those things at that moment, but simultaneously, which is obviously impossible – it’s pure fantasy. There are those who will (would like to) interpret the sentiments expressed near the moment of release as concrete proof of misogyny (with the bonus that it is directed at a prostitute – a paid for woman). They would be wrong. I love women. I particularly love the Amsterdam alley cats. And I think that I am a little bit in love with one alley cat in particular – although it isn’t this one. This one I am using purely for sex. I don’t feel badly about that. It’s her job. And she does her job well. But I am a little bit concerned about how in the final seconds the mask dropped completely and I went from considerate quasi-lover to foul mouthed, primitive, dirty ejaculator. One of the reader feedback letters to theamsterdamdiaries said: I’m glad that you always try to play the gentleman. That was gratifying and, generally speaking, that’s how I see it. I’ve even had window girls use the word to my face. Obviously a bit of dirty talk is not necessarily a bad thing, but it’s still a personal issue; and I don’t do it all the time.

A few weeks from now I will get what might be an insight into this phenomenon. I will read a report of some research into how men’s brains work during and after orgasm. French scientists scanned subjects’ brains prior to, and at, the critical moment and observed that the entire cerebral cortex, the thinking part of the brain, shut down (the entire fucking cortex!!!!). This might be another way of saying that the moment approaching and during ejaculation is pure reflex; it’s nature’s way of making sure that he doesn’t suddenly change his mind. Having got him to this point, nature wants him to do his best to impregnate her. This new scientific information raises an interesting legal question about how it would be viewed if the woman said stop at this point.

Anyway, that might account for the way that the rational, considered, considerate (would not normally use that language in the company of a lady) part of self takes a tumble; the thinking part is spiralling into crisis. Once the orgasm is out of the way, it’s quickly back to service as usual – because two other areas (the cingulate cortex and amygdala) tell the brain to deactivate all sexual desire. This is backed by a surge of soporific brain chemicals such as serotonin and opioids (which is why many men can roll over and fall sleep almost immediately). Unfortunately, giving in to serotonin, opioids and sleep had to be put on hold; I had a plane to catch and so I fought the yawns and pressure to close my eyes. The scientists, meanwhile, speculate on why this sleep thing happens. It seems pretty obvious to me. It’s deeply genetic and linked to ensuring the survival of the species. She is built to receive the semen of many men over a short period of time. Nature does not want him hanging around once he has shed his load. Nature wants him to fuck off out of the way and let another guy’s sperm-pile have a crack at her eggs. Women are built to have multiple orgasms (see above) – maybe to keep her interested. It seems to me to be a Darwinian case of let the best man win, and let’s give the best man the best chance.

Even after I had ejaculated, even when I’d let the growling bear loose at the point of release, I couldn’t let go of her. My body continued in spasm. She lay there, with her mouth open to receive the last hungry kisses, and with her legs open to receive the last frantic stabs from a penis that was dying inside her. But eventually I had to let go because I was dragged off of her by Mr. Cingulate-Cortex and Mr. Amygdala. When I sat back on my heels I could feel an internal itch. It happens sometimes. There was a bit more semen in there somewhere. If I didn’t get it out I would have an on-the-point-of-ejaculating feeling until I did (ejaculate again). So I jerked it free.

“You’ve got some more?”

She looked seriously impressed. Well, why not, Honey? You have had at least four orgasms in the last hour. When I was satisfied that I had expelled every last drop, she reached forward with a sheet of kitchen roll and removed the condom. If I had had my wits about me, I would have encouraged her to do the jerking. After all, I had paid for it.

“That is a lot. Guys don’t usually produce very much when they take Viagra.”

I didn’t know that. Completely outside my experience, but not outside of the experience of this twenty-year old fuck-Goddess. I do find, however, that nearly an hour and a half of dirty sex and near constant fucking pretty much guarantees a good load of the white stuff. Maybe her point was that while the Viagra helps guys to come back for more, this is accompanied by a diminishing return on the white stuff. That makes sense. I hunted around for something to say by way of reply.

“There’s enough sperm in there to make several million babies.”

She paused for a moment to reflect on the idea.

“I know. There was a guy who came here who I thought wanted to buy it for that.”

“Sounds a bit unlikely. At the very least you’d have to keep it in a fridge.”

I don’t know this for a fact, though, do I? I was just making it up. And then she told me the story.

“This guy asked if he could buy the contents of my bin at the end of the day with all the used condoms in it for €500. I thought it was strange, but why not. He paid me the money, went over to the bin, felt around and pulled out a condom.”

She mimed turning a condom inside out and drinking the contents. It was a jaw dropping moment. We both found it disgusting. Unlike the way that we were treating each other’s mouths.  Unlike the way that I had licked Ruby’s arse the day before.  Unlike the smell that greeted me when I went to lick my new friend’s pussy from behind. Unlike the fact that I get a kick out of the idea of watching a girl swallow my ejaculate.  Interestingly, that’s always been in ‘real relationships’, never with an alley cat.

Somehow, we got the conversation back on course. She (twenty years old, remember) counselled me on the dangers of unprotected sex. I guess that she had been reading my mind when I asked her to fulfil the sucking part of the contract. Maybe it was the talk about drinking cum that made her think about it. And was ingesting several fluid ounces of cunt-fluid really that safe?

I went over to my clothes and pulled out my wallet. I had a load of five euro notes in there. I took them out and counted out sixteen. I handed them over. It wasn’t a question of what I thought this session was actually worth, it was a question of thinking in multiples of the original contract fee. She was a bit surprised, I think. She counted them, looked at me and said, “There’s eighty here!”

“Is that OK?”

She just nodded as in, fucking too right it’s OK, but I think that you are overpaying me. Meanwhile, I’m thinking, fucking cheapskate. Why didn’t you pay her what she was worth?

“You should be charging fifty for fifteen minutes, you know, not forty for twenty minutes.”

She then outlined her marketing strategy and rehearsed the fact that a lot of guys come to the door looking to have a suck and fuck for thirty euros. She also said that she was flexible.

“Not everyone can afford fifty euros.”

How altruistic. If only all of the girls looked at it like that. Having said that, she is not unique in her analysis of the economic situation.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, but (she looked thoughtful) I’ve got to go back to work   ….  after that!”

She gestured towards the bed. You can assume that I was feeling rather pleased with myself. I sat on the bed to put on my socks and shoes.

“Do you ever go to hotels?”

“What, be an escort? I don’t but I can. I’m sure we can agree a price for two hours, three, five, all night if you want.”

She seemed to perk up, like a secretary who had just been asked to become PA to the CEO. I am going to have to take another look in the mirror because I’m not sure that I’m wearing the face that I left the hotel with. This is insane.

“What’s the name of your hotel?”

“The Krasnapolsky.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh!”

I heard something inside her head go €Kh’ching! Having said that, she has definitely been more focused on my pleasure than my money this afternoon. And then she launched into a tale about one of her friends. Her friend had gone off with a black guy (which might account for some attitudes) to have a few hours at his hotel. She told her to wait until five o’clock and if she hadn’t heard from her by then she was to go to the police. Five o’clock came and there had been no call from the friend. She waited until five-thirty – then she called the police. They told her that her friend would have to be missing for forty-nine hours (technically, more than two days) before they could investigate. Meanwhile, the friend had been beaten, had her money, phone and passport stolen and was held captive. She escaped through a second floor window. Actually, I had had a similar conversation with Ruby yesterday when I invited her to my hotel. The girls are aware that casual escorting can be problematic. Nevertheless, I appear to have got a yes.

“Do you always work today?”

“Yes. And tomorrow!”

I think she was maybe thinking that something might be on for tomorrow afternoon. Unfortunately, I will be back at work. And in another country.

“And you work here all the time?”

“No, I have to move because I don’t have my own room. Tomorrow I’m further along the canal that way, and on some days I have a room in Oudekennissteeg. One day I have a girlfriend’s room in Dollebeginsteeg. Do you know it?”

Do I know it? Is the Pope a Catholic?

“Yes, I know it. I’ll look out for you when I’m here next time.”

What I don’t understand is how she has managed to fly under my radar for the last twelve months. Maybe because she was changing rooms. Let’s be honest, I am likely to build the whole visit around her next time. There is so much more for us to do! She stood in front of the mirror and touched up her make-up. I stood behind her and gently touched her up. The mirror image showed that it was still the same face that I had left the hotel with about two hours ago. She turned round and I gently kissed her again, mindful of the make up. She kissed me back. That’s unusual. I always find that the game ends the moment that I come. It signals game over, contract fulfilled. This game, by any standards had been fucking A.M.A.Z.I.N.G.

The full thing is available as an Amazon eBook. You don’t need to be a Kindle user to access it (any problems contact me – there is advice on the Home Page). This is about sexual experience – rich, varied and exciting. The Amsterdam Diaries starts the story, The Soho Diaries completes it. They overlap – and they’re current and relevant (Marcus Segretto. September 2018).