Ramblings Of An Old Man - S01 E23

Story 10 months ago

Ramblings Of An Old Man - S01 E23

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 23

Pat manoeuvred me to sit on one of the spare chairs, before unbuttoning and unzipping my trousers. I lifted my arse and dropped them and my underwear to my ankles. In the cramped space, Pat worked herself to kneel between my knees and took me in hand. I was already fully erect and leaking, so she slowly started to work my foreskin up and down, spreading my natural lubricant over my engorged glans.

As she worked on my cock, Pat reached behind her neck with her other hand, undid the tie of her halter and freed her stiff nippled tits for me again. I reached out to caress her, but she brushed my hand away. I could look, but not touch. I guess I hadn’t ‘tipped’ enough for that.

I’d been so long without a woman’s touch, I knew I would probably not last too long. Had I been completely sober, I would probably have shot my load already. But the booze was numbing my senses a bit, and I was determined to hold off as long as possible to get my money’s worth! But after a few minutes of her wanking me, getting steadily faster and faster, I felt my orgasm was imminent. I suppose really I should have warned Pat, but in my brain fog, it never occurred to me. I held back, and held back, until I could no longer control what was happening, and then ejaculated explosively. My first shot hit her on the chin, causing her to lift and turn her head away. Her position and the restricted space though, prevented her from moving away and my remaining spurts landed on her bare chest and tits.

Pat was not best pleased with me for cuming on her like that, and issued a curt rebuke; though didn’t make a major issue of it. She stood and found a bundle of cloth napkins on a shelf behind her and proceeded to use a couple to wipe my cum from her breasts, in doing so, teasingly putting on another show of her assets for me, before she scooped them back into her top, tied it, and headed for the door. In retrospect, I wondered why she didn’t just aim my cock away from her after that first spurt. Perhaps she didn’t mind the pearl necklace as much as she’d said she did after all!

I sat awhile, recovering from the handjob. The first non-self induced orgasm I’d had in months. I felt chilled out and de-stressed. I must have dozed off for a while, as I woke with a start, trousers and pants still round my ankles. Looking at my watch, I realised I would soon be breaking curfew, so hurriedly sorted myself out and went back into the bar. The show was over and it was nearly empty by then. Chris was nowhere to be seen. When I spoke with him the following day, he told me he had walked Pip back to the girls’ digs, hoping to get it on with her, but she’d blown him off when they got there. Not knowing where I was he’d made his own way back to barracks.

I managed to get a taxi back myself, draining the last of my cash from my wallet. It would be a lean couple of weeks ahead, until payday. On the ride home, I reflected on the evening’s events. It was starting to dawn on me that I had just paid for a sexual favour. Pat, as Pip had so succinctly put it, was indeed “whoring herself”, as well as stripping for money. And I’m certain if I’d had the funds with me, it could have been more than a hand job. Basically, she was a prostitute, even if only a part time one.

Should I feel guilty? Why should I? Nobody was forced to do anything against their will. We were consenting adults. There was no real solicitation. A simple mutually agreeable deal was struck, and nobody got hurt! Though in the cold, sober light of the next day, I told myself I would not be doing that again. I’d put myself in a very risky situation, that could have had serious consequences. No, no more prostitutes for me. That promise didn’t last long.

The long hot summer, became an equally balmy autumn, and we continued to work hard, and play harder. The political division of the island had become tolerated, but would never be fully accepted. The risk of further hostilities had all but disappeared, and our lives started to ease further. Curfews were dropped, meaning we were free to come and go as we pleased, with a few exceptions (we definitely could not cross the ‘Green Line’ into Turkish occupied territory.) Also, accompanied posts were reintroduced, and with families returning, the demands on single accommodation started to ease. We were still overcrowded, but not as massively so as when I arrived. It also meant ‘service brats’ appeared; the teenage sons and daughters of married servicemen, but more of that later.

With the curfews lifted, the night clubs in town also extended their opening hours. It was mostly the British servicemen, and a few women, that frequented them. They tried so hard to attract more female clientele, but in the main, they were just ‘after hours’ drinking dens for us blokes. After the NAAFI and unit bars closed, we’d pile into taxis and head for town. We still occasionally frequented the strip bars, but Pip and Pat’s troupe had long since finished their run and we’re probably plying their trade back in the UK by now, or elsewhere in the world perhaps.

Late one Friday night, having spent some time in the normal haunts, three of us were sat in the strip bar nursing our drinks. The acts had finished for the night, and hadn’t been that special anyway. We were trying to decide where to go next, when out of the blue Phil, one of my drinking partners suggested, “Why don’t we see what it’s like in The Square.”

Phil was referring to Heroes Square, which was actually strictly off limits to us for a couple of reasons. Firstly, as a security risk, because of its association with EOKA, the Cypriot nationalist organisation of the 1950’s, that ‘fought’ against British rule, leading to Cyprus’s independence in 1962; especially as members of the reborn EOKA-B were known to frequent The Square. Secondly, and probably more relevant, The Square was the heart of the ‘red light district’ of Limassol, famed for its seedy nightlife, drug dealers and sex workers.