External Link/Members OnlyOne perk of work are the trips to see clients around the country. While the idea of travelling for hours, to face a wall of hostility from some jumped up little wanker in a miserable provincial town may sound grim, the quantity and variety of punting opportunities – both low and high brow, makes it all worthwhile. As I sat eating a take away in my well-worn and outdated hotel room, I thumbed adultwork and made phone calls with my punting phone and no one wanted to play ball. I pushed on regardless.
Finally an escort, who shall remain nameless, picked up and offered a blow and go. Bingo. I hurried to get dressed, with the uninspiring local chain pizza still in my mouth, and as I put my hand on the hotel room door to leave, the phone beeped, she had cancelled on me by text. For fuck sake. Time to breathe, slow down, and regroup for the battle ahead. Fired up UKP. I am not familiar with Brum, I don’t know the equivalent of a Soho walk up, where even in such hard times you can just turn up and get a punt, even if it is of dubious quality.
A consensuses has built on our glorious font of knowledge that a certain Erotic Studio of Henrietta Street (no worries, full address on their website, they talk walk ins) is reliable place to sin. And at £60 for a half portion of what you fancy, with a side order of OWO included, why the fuck would I not go. I had also noted that a certain young harlot going by the nom de guerre “Bella” had picked up some traction on here. I rang. She was free. Appointment booked, Google maps it was, route charted, time to go.
As I walked through the bracing cold of a West Midlands winters day everything started off well. Pretty city centre streets, decent folk out and about, boozy young blondes smoking or vaping outside over-priced bars far too early in the day for my soft Southerner sensibilities. Time to take a deep breath and brave the underpass under the ring road, reminding me of all that’s wrong with British post-war urban planning. Coming up for air the other side, things had changed. It was grittier. There were dirty buildings with bushes growing out of them. Booze shops that would not look out of place in a hood movie. I got to the intersection to turn into the street that the parlour is located on. Fuck me. By the time I got there it was dark and empty. The wholesalers shuttered, only a few places open. Rubbish blowing around in the streets, massive pot holes in the roads. Gaudily coloured “wrapped” high performance cars with personalised number plates. Where the fuck was I going?! However, the dark side of me, the side that keeps me punting and doing wrong, liked the thrill of going on a mission down streets that looked like the Bronx in the 1980s. There was a seediness to it that I liked, that I search out, that I can’t get enough of.
The parlour itself is in something that resembles a cottage that seems strangely out of place amongst the post-industrial decline, like it has been picked up out of the peak district and dropped in the Jewellery Quarter, to be taken over by hoes and johns like me. I was buzzed in and welcomed with typical midlands warmth, that unmistakable smell of a knocking shop, fags, cheap perfume, sex and cleaning products instantly exciting me. Led into a small basic, yet warm and decent room. So far so good.
While Bella had been positively reviewed, some had commented on her being a bit too “fake” in her looks and performance, so I did not strip naked straight away instead deciding to wait to meet her first. A few minutes later she opened the door “you alright?!?” and she seemed bizarrely timid for a girl who had made such an effort to make herself look like a total tart. I like the fake tarty look and she fitted the bill, even if she had a bit too much make up on even for my depraved tastes. I checked that OWO was included for £60, but because of monkey pox the girls have stopped kissing which is a real shame. Money handed over she went to stash the cash, I undressed, no shower offered, no biggie for me.
She came back in, asked if I wanted a massage, which I accepted and she even enquired whether I wanted oil or not which is thoughtful. The massage was good, but her nails were scratchy which I found a bit odd. To make lemons into lemonade, I asked her to tickle my balls with her nails after 10 minutes or so, and she knew just how to tickle, play and cajole my man bits into life and I was rock hard by the time I flipped over.
“do you want some oral babe?!”. Fucking did I! She went to work, and was keen, capable, wet, and took instruction well. This was going well, although she was between my legs and I would have loved to get a good fondle of her tits. I could have asked her to move but the oral was too good to distract a master at work. She checked in to ask if I was ok, I was obviously good, and she carried on going. I wanted some pussy. She took my suggestion of fucking well, asked which position I wanted, applied the doom and slipped me into her in missionary. Her pussy is not only very neat and beautiful, but warm, tight and highly fuckable. She had no issues with deep penetration and held her legs up to enable me to have as much access and to pound away however I liked. She didn’t make any of the fake moans other punters have noted. I didn’t last long because at this point I needed a release and she was happy for me to finish off as deep inside of her as I liked.
As I lay down, she got a nappy sack for the dom and gave me some wet wipes. We had a pretty decent post-pound chat. There are notices everywhere that you can request a second massage after your punt to use up any spare time. I wasn’t in the mood, especially with the nails, and I wanted to get back to my bolt hole and watch some shit TV.
Suited back up and out the door back into a cold messy JQ sated and happy with what I got for £60!
