Letitia

One day sexual frustration finally overtook fear and I called a number I'd copied down for a local no-rush body-2-body busty massage, posted in wobbly handwriting in a local newsagent's window between ads for a man with a van and intermediate guitar lessons. I was off work and my wife was out. A woman's voice said, hello? Nervously, I said I was calling about the ad for the massage parlour. (Parlour? Where the hell did that come from?) I was terrified I had the wrong number, but it was OK. She gave me the address of a block of flats a short walk away. Yes, in 20 minutes or so would be fine. Call me when you get there.

I found the place. It had a gravel parking space in front, and steps leading up to a door with reinforced glass and an intercom system with about 50 doorbells. I called her again. She just needed a minute. I felt a bit awkward standing there, loitering as it were, where anyone might see me and wonder what that man was doing. Stupid of course - why wouldn't I stand there waiting for my friend, legitimate business contact or perfectly respectable family member?

I decided to take a walk around the block. Thinking about it though, as I walked, perhaps it wasn't really a block I could walk around in a moment. It might be miles. The phone rang. Strange to see that number lighting up the Incoming Call screen. Where you going darling? Take the lift to the second floor. OK.

The door buzzed and clicked as I reached it. Inside, it was dim, deserted, echoey, clean. A lift at the end of the corridor on my right. I pressed the button to call it. A distant hum, lift arriving, echoing ping, doors rumbling open. Silence again. I get in, press 2, doors close. A moment later the doors rumble open with a clear ping that hangs in the silence. It is still deserted. The corridor has a bend in it so I can’t see all the way to the end, but I hear a single unmistakable click of a door being unlocked. I follow the sound. Around the corner, one door is ajar. A friendly looking black woman in her late thirties is standing in the doorway, wearing only a basque top and a big smile. Hi darlin’, she says, welcoming me in with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

The small front room has a double bed and a large TV. She explains in her sweet Caribbean accent that she is a qualified masseuse and will be happy to give me a relaxing massage without touching me anywhere I don't want to be touched. Or, if I like, we can talk about extras. Umm, yes, extras sound like what I was after. Well, she continues, perhaps a little relieved that I'm not there for some stupid massage therapy after all, the VIP service includes protected oral then straight sex, all positions, no rush, £60. And so that's what we do.

We get payment out of the way. She touches my leg. I'm turned on already. I swear some people have just got something about them. It's not about being a supermodel. Smiling, she undoes my belt, unzips my jeans. Nice jeans, she says. Thanks. Her warm fingers slip inside my boxer shorts and find my erect penis. Oh god, I may have gasped, that's what I need, that's what I don't get at home. It's true. It's the best feeling in the world to be undressed, wanted, felt, explored. Found. Squeezed.

She put on a porn DVD, I can't say it really helped, then after playing with my cock a little while, put a condom on me and knelt to suck me. I couldn't feel a lot through the condom but it was still nice, like maybe having a foot massage in your socks. It looked good too in the full length mirror she'd got set up. I guess she'd done this before. Then she helped me out of the rest of my clothes, sat me on the bed and straddled me, oh my god, eight years of frustration, disappointment and porn, and my poor straining wank-weary erection at last slipped between a real woman's thighs. I felt the warmth of her pussy around me, the smoothness of her back with my arms, the gentle wiriness of her hair against the side of my face as she held me. Then I was on top, her legs drawn up high, my hand gripping her firm bottom. I told her how gorgeous she was, and meant it, thrusting hard now. She seemed to be getting excited, moaning about how good my cock felt and how my wife was missing something special. OK, she might have been faking a bit but did it matter? This was more enthusiasm than I'd experienced in years.

After I came between her legs (more a sigh of relief than an explosion of physical pleasure to be honest, a sense of achievement almost, a promise to myself finally delivered) and she tidied up, I mentioned I had a thing about bottoms. Oh, do you usually fuck guys? she asked matter-of-factly, rolling up the full condom in a tissue. Umm, no, I replied. Hey she said, I don't judge. I'd immediately liked her when we first met but suddenly I felt a huge respect for her. She didn't judge. She didn't have an attitude, she didn't play games, she didn't care if I was gay or straight. I came to her wanting sex and she gave it to me honestly. She saw nothing wrong with a guy wanting sex. Why wouldn't I? She seemed to think it was quite natural. This was not like the real world, where you have to keep pretending you don't, as if it's the very last thing on your mind. What, rip your panties off and fuck you senseless? Why, the very thought had never occurred to me. What do you take me for. I felt liberated. Letitia set me free.

As I got dressed she explained the procedure to me. The number I'd had on my phone for months was the old one, and she gave me the current one she used for work. I started to type her name into the phone and she stopped me. A strange woman's name on my phone could get us both into trouble. My wife can barely operate her own phone, let alone mine. All the same, she could find a way if she got suspicious, trust me darlin'. Put in something ordinary, like (she looked around the room), "Jeans". I typed in "IT Support". She would never call me. She wouldn't answer the phone to women or withheld numbers. She stayed out of people's private lives. I told her she would make a great spy. She was pretty sure that she would.

I saw Letitia several times over the following months. It was a professional relationship of course, and I respected that, but it was always friendly as well. She would be pleased to see me and give me a big hug and a kiss when she opened the door to me. She said I was a nice guy. She always asked after my wife. One time I got there and she was locked out - they'd changed the security system and she didn't have her swipe card on her, so we had to wait for someone to come out, then I helped carry her shopping up the stairs because the lift was out of order. Once I lost my erection and couldn't do much (hey, it happens) and we just lay side by side, holding hands, telling each other about our lives.

Then I got a new job that left me less time, and I came across Ace Massage and found a place near work called Bermondsey Babes where somebody cute would do pretty much whatever you liked to you in your lunch break, and so I didn't get around to phoning Letitia for a few months. When I did, the phone was switched off. I kept trying and it was always off, then the message changed to "you have dialled an incorrect number." Maybe she gave up sex work, maybe she moved and changed numbers, but I never saw her again. I really hope she is OK. I miss Letitia.