A Night in Kings Cross ~ Marquis de Chalfont

May 19, 2007

It was 4.00am on Sunday morning and I was drunk. I was inside a small Kings Cross gaming room playing the pokies. With my first ten dollars the machine paid out, one hundred and fifty smackeroonies, which was mine to spend how I wanted? After collecting my winnings from a sleepy-faced teller an association of thoughts made me think of getting a brass. Yes, that’s what I needed, a sexual experience without any emotional ties to celebrate my good fortune.
     I staggered towards William Street. It was late now, not so many people around, just the aimless and the hardcore and those with nowhere else to go. Most of the hookers had gone home for the night.  Then I saw one, an Asian girl, strutting her stuff in the shadows, head held high. I approached.
       “Looking for a lady?” asked a husky voice.
“How much?”
“Fifty.”
I nodded.
The prostitute looked me up and down, “Okay, young boy, you follow me.”
Again I clocked the husky voice, but nothing untoward registered in mind, and I followed like a lost puppy.
      The brass took me to a smart looking block of private flats at the bottom of Bayswater road. Moments later we were inside a dimly lit apartment. The girl asked if I would like a drink. So far the business of paying for sex had been a civilised affair. I sat back in my chair and relaxed,
“Got any beers?”
      The woman pulled a face and tottered to a small kitsch mini-bar, which stood in one corner of the room, “No beer. That stuff make you fat!”
I noticed for the first time how strong her accent was, very south-east Asian, possibly Thai or Filipino, but it was hard to pinpoint exactly. She probably hadn’t lived in Australia for that long, I mused somewhat absentminded.
“You like Gin & Tonic?”
“Fine with me.”
     Once the brass had fixed the drinks, we sat and made small talk. It was the usual intros. Where are you from, what do you do? As we chatted I gave her the once over. She was tall for a slope and skinny, with a small bum and big breasts. She was wearing layers of foundation, plenty of mascara, lipstick, eyeliner, etc. In fact everything about her was slightly exaggerated.
 When my drink was half-finished the girl picked it up,
“We go bedroom now.”
    Once in the boudoir the girl undressed, revealing black suspenders, bra and knickers. Class, I thought as I dropped my jeans and cast off my tee-shirt. I sat down on the bed and the brass knelt in front of me and went straight to work. I was still fairly drunk, and despite an effective technique, I knew the girl would have to work hard to earn her fifty dollars.
     At one point I slipped a hand inside the prostie’s bra and gave one of her breasts a firm squeeze. The breast was solid like it was made out of cement, but I kept on squeezing. The girl stopped sucking and flipped her bra off. The breasts popped out and didn’t move, stone tits, a plastic surgery job without a doubt.  I leaned over and sucked on a nipple, but it felt weird, like sucking an ice-cream cone or something.
      After a while of the breast feeling and cock-sucking business I decided to be more assertive. I slid a hand down to the suspenders and slid a finger inside. Suddenly the brass jumped up, causing her hair to slide to one side, a wig,
“You wan full sex?” She gasped.
What a stupid question, “Yeah.”
“You sure wan full sex with girl like me?”
Another stupid question, “Yeah.”
      With that the brass produced a condom and expertly slid it onto my cock. Then she rolled onto her back, slid her knickers off, and opened her legs. I looked at what was in front of me and suddenly felt like an actor in some x-rated scene from an obscure B-Movie. In a scene like this I would look directly into a camera and say something like, “Well, what would you do folks?”
     In front of me was a small, limp, pathetic looking cock, shrunken balls and shaved pubic area. Before I could react the brass grabbed my cock and stuck it straight up her arse. She/he was already lubed up and it slipped all the way in, and despite some lingering reservations I soon hit a steady and sure rhythm.  As I did the small withered cock gradually spurred into action and rose to the occasion. At one point I grabbed it and gave it a tug. Strangely, it wasn’t a turn off.  I’d never had sex with a transsexual before, never even contemplated it, but life firsts are life firsts no matter how bizarre. Ah well, in for a penny in for a pound,’ I sighed as I pumped away.
     After I came, grunting and collapsing onto a bed of cement tits, the transsexual straddled me and finished off by hand. This move somewhat disgusted me, but I’d always wondered what it must feel like to receive a face load of cum, and it wasn’t long before I found out. I closed my mouth because despite everything I didn’t fancy swallowing any man juice, and moments later a splatter of warm sticky substance frosted my face. Immediately afterwards I was repulsed by the whole kinky episode. I rushed into the bathroom and splashed water all over my face, found a dressing gown, and wiped most of the shit onto that.  Then I returned to the bedroom and re-dressed in world record time.
        The transsexual lay on the bed murmuring something about how wonderful it had all been, and for a split-second I thought about committing murder in cold blood. It could be done quite easily, I ruminated, but instead I just left without saying goodbye.

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4 Responses to “A Night in Kings Cross ~ Marquis de Chalfont”

  1. […] Marquis-de-Chalfonthttps://savagemanners.wordpress.com/2007/05/19/a-night-in-kings-cross-marquis-de-chalfont/  […]

  2. Ben said

    Nicely handled. Takes a rather seedy encounter and imbues it with humour and (a little) sensitivity. An eye-opener in every sense.

  3. Marquis De Bute said

    Ha, yes, this is great. Has my good friend the Marquis De Chal created a new literary genre,
    chicks-with-dicks-lit!

    Adieu

  4. Aimee LH said

    i open my mouth, and nothing comes out. i open my eyes, see cum on your face, and think about life, my friend. these are the documents that the almanac misses. these are the writer’s halls to sweep.

    zo

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