Suzanne Portnoy

‘Soooo,’ he said, in his charming French accent this afternoon. ‘What do you zink? You like?’

His average sized, average thick cock was in my mouth. Why do men ask these questions, I thought as I was taking him deep into my throat, when they all want to hear the same answer?

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I love it. It’s perfect.’

I can be a world class liar when I want to be, having learned never, ever, ever to tell a man with an average endowment that, well, his cock is lovely but average. This was brought home to me years ago by a live-in boyfriend who asked me if his cock was big enough. When I replied, ‘Not really but it’ll do,’ he wasn’t pleased. ‘Suzanne,’ he said to me, ‘there are times when it really pays to lie.’

‘Frankly, darling,’ I said to him, ‘if you wanted me to lie, you shouldn’t have asked the question.’

After that his erections were never quite so erect and ‘Yes, I love it’ became my stock reply to what I soon realised was standard pillow talk, along with ’spit on it again,’ ‘you’re so horny’ and ‘get on all fours.’

Today’s session broke the record for me, not just because he was the first and only french man I can recall ever shagging but because from meeting to fucking to saying goodbye took 55 minutes. My sandwiches last longer. Yet in that time we both managed to get off (not always easy for me) and have a shower. It was not the most memorable sex but I particularly liked when he asked if he could grab his glasses so he could get a clearer picture of me sucking his cock.

I was in uber slut mode, having decided that there was no point in establishing intimacy with a man who was watching the clock. With less than an hour to spend together, it seemed wise to adopt the role of porn star, thus guaranteeing him a quick orgasm and me a fantasy fuck. I’ve watched enough XXX to know what to do. Working my way through the average porn star repertoire, I gave him my best deep throat blowjob, spit on his cock, rimmed his ass, fucked him in at least three different positions before sitting on his face and having an explosive orgasm. By then he had already come in my mouth, with my tongue out, of course.

‘Are you OK?’ he said, when my orgasm finally subsided. It had been a while since I had come with a man and I probably was a bit louder than normal.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m fine. Sorry. Sometimes I get a bit carried away.’

‘I thought you might be dying,’ he said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m very much alive.’

Comforted that I had avoided death, he was out the door and on the street within minutes and I went back to work a contented girl having finally bagged a small baquette. It was nice to know that even at 47, with a few hundred miles on the clock, I could still have a first.