After a pretty successful first punt amongst the Soho walkups last week, I found myself skirting the borders of Soho Square when the memory of it came flooding back, consequently dragging the raging "urge" with it. Time for a second go, thought I, and recalled the various recommendations on the Soho Walk-Up thread that are to be found on Greek Street.
I aimed for 8 Greek St, hoping to find either the well complimented and responsive Roxy or the bustier, bbw blonde Kate. Unfortunately, I'd picked the worst time to go there for a still-nervous newbie at Walk-Ups like me, for it was early Friday evening and all the local office workers were obviously big believers in POETS day and thus "The Pillars" was heaving, with clientele spilling out onto the street. As it was still early they were all still sober enough to notice exactly what I'd be up to and I didn't fancy the probable cheers, cat-calls and rounds-of-applause that would've greeted both my entrance and exit, so I sloped off.
I continued down Greek St, wracking my brains for inspiration when I passed a clothes shop with a stairway next to it leading down into the gloom and the traditional star-shaped sign upon the wall reading "Model". My eyes lit up as this was obviously No.52, the notorious Walk Down in Soho. Before my nerves could chuck a spanner in the proverbials again, I dived inside and skittered down the stairs.
At the bottom I was greeted by a rather knackered and somewhat precarious-looking chair, covered in what appeared to be hilarious zebra print. Clearly the waiting point for those gentlemen unfortunate to be caught in a queue. But which for door, as I realised there were three in close proximixty? Two in front and one behind. The choice was quickly narrowed for me as the one behind swiftly slammed shut, only allowing me a brief glimpse of a room piled high with what Reggie Perrin would've termed as "Grot" before a female voice, cracked with a sixty-a-day fag habit, bellowed something unintelligible to someone else in one of the other rooms. Having experienced the (terrifying) maid(s) in my first foray into Walk Ups, I'd prepared myself for something similar, so I turned and faced the two remaining doors. But again, which one? Suddenly, a heavily accented voice from behind one of them called out something like, "There's no upstairs one, just knock."
"Easy for you to say", I thought, "You're on that side of the door."
Nonetheless, I gambled on which one the voice had come from (the one to the left) and knocked...
The Actual Review
The door was opened by a girl in her mid-twenties, about 5'7" in height and quite curvy. Probably a size 12 with very nice, full tits and a good roundness to her arse. Her hair was dark, probably black, and pulled back in a tail. She had dark, almond-shaped eyes, which gave her an almost Middle-Eastern look to her features, but her skin was far too light. She was dressed in a black bodice, hold-ups and heels, all of which emphasised those curves.
"Come, babe", she said, stepping away from the entrance. I certainly intended to, as much as I could, so I stepped into the room.
The room, like the stairway, was quite dingily lit and it was also a real sweatbox with no option for a window and a tiny fan that only moved around the hot air.
"Iss hot, no?", said my prospective fuck.
"Even hotter with you in the room", I responded, grinning - and instantly wanted to punch myself in the face. What sort of numbnuts comes out with that sort of arseholery? I wouldn't have blamed her if she'd have turfed me out if I was only going to speak in 1970's bad porn dialogue.
But she forgave me by just smiling (I don't want to know what she was thinking) and directed my attention to the prices on the wall and asked, "So, what fun you like, hmm?"
I went for the Oral, Sex & Positions at £40. As I was counting out the sheets, the girl interrupted by saying, "Also need your coins. Iss all about da money."
This was a little off-putting. I realise that these girls aren't doing it out of any fun, enjoyment or career advancement but please don't make it so obvious that I'm just a cash cow to my face. I handed over some coins for the hidden maid outside and was met with "Ah, the usual £2". Now, I don't know whether this was an attempt at light humour on both counts (and after my arse-clenching earlier comment who could blame her) which didn't quite come off as she was smiling throughout, so I'm prepared to give the benefit of the doubt. She disappeared outside briefly with the cash as I got ready.
Disconcertingly, as I was doing so, a couple of aggressive-sounding male voices came from outside which gave me pause. Still being that Walk Up newbie I envsioned all sorts of horror scenarios that could play out and braced myself. These voices were responded to by the girl and then the sixty-fags-a-day maid in a language I couldn't follow and then silence. Shortly after the girl returned and I was pretty much still dressed.
"Oh, what you do all dis time?", she playfully chided me.
As I derobed, I discovered her name was Zara and she claimed she was Bulgarian (although at a later point she forgot and said Romainian, so who the hell knows)
I lay back on the bed and she rolled on the rubber and began sucking. Nice deep strokes followed by shorter head-bobbing on the tip. Very accomplished and enjoyable, but no DT. Added extra though was the sloppiness (great visual) and the moans of pleasure, which although utterly fake, were great to hear when your cock is in a girls mouth.
This carried on for a few minutes until, annoyingly, the maid banged on the door and croaked something incomprehensible. "Later, still busy", yelled Zara. She smiled up at me and said "I think you fuck me now, yes?"
I certainly didn't disagree, so Zara released those lovely tits (DD's at a rough estimate) grabbed the lube, coated her pussy and lay back with her legs spread. I didn't need telling twice and slid into her as she wrapped her legs over my forearms. Nicely responsive to my thrusts with a series of soft murmers and moans and the occasional gasped "Oh fuck", but I really wanted to see those tits swing and get my grubby mits on them, so I asked her to ride me.
"You tired already?" she scolded, but was happy to swap positions.
She expertly rode me and I was able to delight myself by man-handling those great knockers. Not as big as I normally go for, but they were a good shape, full, pert and just a little over a handful. With a double-palmful of tit, a sexy arse pounding up and down on me and a heavy accented voice fake-moaning above me it wasn't long before I felt the sap rising and things came to a natural conclusion.
I was handed some wet wipes and had a brief (and utterly forgettable) conversation as I dressed. Zara did seem a little eager to get rid of me, despite the smiles and when the door was opened I saw why. A young, bespectacled fella was stood outside in the cramped hallway and suddenly became intensely interested in the knackered zebra-print chair as I stepped out. I shot passed and up the stairs into the street to save us both any uncomfortable moments.
On the whole an enjoyable, positive punt and got what I was after. Would I go back? Hmmm. Probably, but I would pick a different day or earlier time to avoid the crowds or the feeling that Zara had already been stuck in that hot, airless room for a while and was probably starting to feel tired and jaded. Although still fun and pleasurable, I imagine you'd get even more from her when she's feeling fresher.
