Originally Posted by
ML_Lover
Below is my first diary entry from my very first ML punt. It's a little clichéd, lots shorter than my more recent ones, and a lot less porno, but I think it captures my mixed feelings and confusion about the experience. It was a over a month before I went back, and sadly Anne had left. I feel very lucky to have had Anne as my first ML - a really sweet, kind girl who realised I had no idea and gave me a guiding hand...
Anne
A dim, anonymous back alley doorway that neither beckons nor repels, yet I hesitantly proceed inside, not driven by desire, but by curiosity and the obligation of my booking. I age inexorably older, seemingly faster each day, the hunger mounts to experience the new, the untried, and today, to cast aside inhibitions, for rapidly I run out of time to grow.
A small, polite but somehow furtive man confirms my booking and almost apologetically, perhaps subconsciously acknowledging the impurity of our transaction, takes my money. Meandering a confusion of corridors, he introduces me to ‘Anne’ and quietly makes an utterly unnoticed exit.
Standing gaping, sensory overload almost disabling me as her beauty and acceptance of what I have just paid for is imposed upon my mind, my arm precipitately imprisoned between her breasts, I am led by hand to the sanctuary of her room, a room of soft light and dancing shadows.
The shower is old but clean, perfumed shower gel offered and applied liberally, briefly giving the illusion of cleanliness.
The rugged massage table is clothed in disposable fabric, dominating the small room. Rational interaction almost beyond me, I dutifully lie face down for 30minutes, my muscles receiving her undivided attention, alternating pain and soothing, her breasts too occasionally to be chance brushing against me in a hint of what is to follow. Perhaps sensing my disquiet, she makes giggly pleasantries as she massages my back in an unexpectedly firm and proficient manner.
Part 2, as it colloquially known in these circles, begins as I hear her take off her clothes, my imagination running wild, my heart seemingly doing its best to explode, my face imprisoned facing floorwards through the hole in the massage table. Would it be crude to turn and take a peek? The moment passes and is lost.
Straddling my back, warm oil is applied to my body by way of her hands, breasts, stomach, as parts of me begin to appreciate her soothing touch, my pounding heart not relaxing, but subdued for now. I have no idea what is to happen next – how far does Anne go to please her customers?
Eventually I am told to roll over, gratefully fulfilling my hopes, my hand is placed upon her oiled breast - the tables are turned as I massage her to the accompaniment of soft moaning sounds. Despite my apparent abilities here, and her previous assurances of her love of the job, I am slightly displeased at her over-acting the part. Imagine my surprise then, when not only is my hand gently and unexpectedly placed between her parted legs, but to discover her dripping wet! Rules intervened, and my finger withdrawn from its warm hiding spot, but continuing to worry her clitoris to further female pleasure noises. By now, her hands unseen were causing me to lose focus as my cock received skilful manipulation, and my eyes filled with her perfect ass as she reverse straddles me. Sadly, such attention takes its toll as too soon I empty myself, presumably narrowly missing her face.
Another shower, where for the first time I am disappointed with events, as I am washed clean, but Anne does not join me under the water stream, merely giving, not receiving.
Old, yet even now I feel like a child in the shadow of her so young confidence, and the strange experiences of the last hour. Such a small amount of money for so great an intimacy, so affectionately performed. Yet for all her wetness, her affection was presumably just an illusion, a play she radiantly performs daily for people she has never met before.
So I leave the place my mind in turmoil, finding it hard to reconcile such tender intimacy with our material status as strangers. I am possessively glad of this now memory, this experience, and profoundly altered. Yet days later, I am unsure how or what to feel, unsure if the experience was something I enjoyed or could ever do again…
Prophetic Words from an obscure Scottish poet:
“It was Bible black in Lyon when I met the Magdalene. She was paralysed in a streetlight, she refused to give her name. A ring of violet bruises they were pinned upon her arm, 200 francs for sanctuary as she led me by the hand, to a room of dancing shadows, where all the heartache disappears, and in the glowing tongues of candles, I hear her whisper in my ear "'J'entend ton coeur", I can hear your heart, I can hear your heart, hear your heart.
FISH.
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