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I change the color of my hair often. When men see a blonde, a brunette, a redhead, a goth with her hair dyed green or purple, he sees a type, and even the most striking woman gets whittled down to fit that type. When a man sees my hair change, it signals that I am all types, a sexual chameleon.
Oh, you want the schoolgirl, the one who looks like your daughter, her pigtails tied with red ribbons? I’ll dye it brown.
And you want high class but low self esteem, don’t you? For that I’ll go blonde with black showing underneath.
That color, blonde with black, was how I attracted one of my strangest sexual partners.
His story was the same as many others: he was married, and he loved his wife–he promised this as if it might matter to me personally–but their sex life had grown stale. He offered me two hundred dollars to come to a motel room for an hour. He said he wouldn’t touch me because he was married. We ended up in a cheap room in a bad part of town. I waited in the car while he paid. It was a dive. There wasn’t even AC, just a stand up fan.
He Rus Escort must have picked the place knowing about the fan ahead of time. .He asked me to get on my knees in front of it.
“There,” he said. “That’s good. Press your knees together. Hands in your lap. You look very chaste.”
He turned the fan on. My hair flew back as if I were an actress filming on a beach or cliff beside the ocean.
“That’s not too fast is it? It’s not hurting your eyes?”
I smiled and told him I was fine. He sat on the bed, asking me to turn my head away from him. All I could see was the gray hotel wall and the outlet where the TV and fan were plugged in. I heard the zipper of his pants. A moment later they fell on the floor. After kneeling for twenty to thirty minutes, he asked if I would take my shirt and bra off. Near the end of the hour he unplugged the fan and walked behind me. When he came, most of it landed in my hair, a drop or two landing on my right shoulder.
“Would you mind riding home without cleaning it Sincan Escort off?”
I didn’t mind at all.
. . . .
I saw him again a month later. My hair was dyed a bright, unnatural red then, and it was cut much shorter, just above my shoulders. He asked for another hour, this time offering four hundred. I asked him if there was a reason for the price increase.
“Breathplay.”
I told him I could do it, but he had to take me in when he paid for the room. That way my face would be on camera. He agreed.
Once we were in the room, he performed the same routine with the fan only this time he made me strip completely. He took out a power cord from a bag he carried and told me to raise my right hand if I needed air.
His timing was good. He kept me right on the edge of consciousness for most of the hour. I only raised my hand five times, and he always loosened his grip immediately. It made me wet. I felt the cool air blowing between my legs. I wanted to reach down and touch it, Sıhhiye Escort but I knew without asking that this would harm his fantasy. I waited, hands on my lap, obediently staring at the fan blades.
When his hour was almost up, he went to the fan and set it at its maximum, then stood off to the side of it.
“Keep your eyes open,” he said. “It’s just a moment.”
My eyes dried out quickly and started to sting, but I trusted him not to take long.
He had kept his cock in his pants while he choked me, but he took it out now. He stroked it viciously for a few seconds. His orgasm was heavy. Thick. I could see it, caught in the breeze, coming straight toward me like heavy rain. It landed all over my front, from my chin so my knees. Some of it pooled in my belly button. He turned the fan off.
“I don’t want any to blow away.”
He stood in admiration until the hour finished.
“Don’t towel off.”
When I dressed, you could see the come stains on my shirt. There were even a couple near the pockets on my shorts.
“You have to come with me to check out, since you came during check in.”
My hand was half-raised, about to wipe my chin. I paused, then decided to follow through, even though the hour was over.
Downstairs, the night clerk blushed the whole time we were at the desk.
The man drove me home afterward, and I never saw him again.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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