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try to accommodate him. Last night, my pussy was like Time Square at rush hour.

What was unusual was that now I had a boyfriend who wanted to eat me. Sure, I’d bathed and douched, but still, I didn’t think it was fair.

Wendell Stafford was a nice guy. I couldn’t let this go on and on. “Ummmm, Wendell, there’s something you need to know,” I said as I got out of bed, and started getting dressed. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m a prostitute. I fuck and blow guys for a living. I’m sorry I deceived you. You deserve better. Goodbye, Wendell.” Then I was out the door.

I was depressed. In the cab, I called one of my clients whose appointment I moved to be with Wendell. “Stan, it’s Daisy. I apologize for the inconvenience but something came up and then it didn’t. If you’re free, I’ll be home in about an hour. And Stan, this one’s on me.”

I don’t do freebies very often; maybe at Christmas for my very best customers and for a few of those concierges at the hotels.

Stan Marchese always wanted me to suck his cock. After leaving Wendell’s that’s what I needed. Stan had a nice big one. I always give clients my very best effort. Tonight, Stan got my very, very, very best effort. “Stan, you have the most incredible cock to suck. Do you think if Daisy encouraged you, I can do you again?”

To my surprise, about a week later, on my personal line, Wendell called. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. Do you think it could work between us?”

Like I said, I was shocked. “Wendell, you’d have to erase a lot of bad memories from your head. I can’t imagine that any man could do that.”

We met for coffee. We were going to try. We even made light of it. “No wonder you were so good in bed,” he laughed. “Yeah, and Wendell, you have no idea how much you’d have to pay for that.”

We went out of another few months. I wasn’t surprised that Wendell never offered to eat me again. Then he just stopped calling. I understood.

Speaking of eating: I would say that once a month a client asked if he could eat me. Nine times out of ten, it was a guy visiting New York for a convention or something.

Nine times out of ten, these guys were gluttons for my pussy and extremely talented. I’d have real orgasms; no acting necessary.

It happened more often than you might imagine. At some point they’d stop eating. “Look Daisy.” They’d stand up and shoot their load; on me, and on the bed. “Daisy, that’s how good your pussy is to eat.” Then they’d go back down on me and eat some more.

Hey, Mrs. Whatever the fuck your name is from Bumfuck, Nebraska, what’s wrong with you? Why does your husband have to come all the way to NewfuckingYork to eat pussy?

The last thing I’m going to tell you wives is this:

I’m a brunet. I have light brown hair and my pubic hair is about the same. A few times a month a regular client or an out-of-towner will look at my pussy and mention something about hairless. I didn’t do that. I liked looking like a woman, not a little girl.

However, about two years after I started, just before Thanksgiving I tried a wax. I let my good customers know. I called it a “Christmas Special.” I’d keep my pussy bare until after the New Year. Most of the regulars loved it. They were once or twice a month guys. They booked a few extra dates. Guys like Stan who loved my blowjobs wanted to fuck me.

Other guys who liked me to ride their cocks while they played with my tits, insisted I get on my back and they held my ankles, watching their cocks go in and out of my bare pussy.

Ladies, if your husband wants to fuck your bare pussy, what are you waiting for? You know, shaving doesn’t hurt, you just need to take your time and be extra careful. As for a wax, sure there’s a day or two of discomfort, but I assure you, your husband won’t have that as a reason to come to me.

Shortly after the New Year, I took a month off. I needed to rejuvenate my body. I have a condo near Naples, Florida. A month on the beach, letting my bush grow back was the perfect way for me to recover. It wasn’t hard to meet guys in bars down there, but I didn’t date. I really needed to recuperate. My pussy needed a break; so did my lips.

I can’t tell you how many of those guys in those Florida bars were married, but it was probably two out of three. “My wife doesn’t understand me,” was the common refrain.

I’ll ask you wives one more time, WHAT THE FUCK’S WRONG WITH YOU?

THE END

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