Costa da Caparica - Ana red-head, 30s
Arrive from 17c in Amasterdam to a sweltering 35c in Lisbon. Check in City and then head for Costa da Caparica. I actually flew over it on the way in, and already it was clear that it was a choice between a balmy beach resort or a slow wilt in the city.
CDC was an inspired choice for my first TD in Portugal, as I was later to find out, and in no small measure due to the brilliant advice on his board. CdC is a typical Portuguese seaside resort... with the added density of commuters. Sandy beaches, 1m high waves... And a brigade of surfers on one beach trying to catch a ride... On another beach, swimmers and sunbathers as naked as local customs allow. The local sea side choo choo trundles by. taking daytrippers back to their cars.
1900 and it is my turn to catch a ride, as I head a few blocks back to No 9 Praca Padre Manuel Bernardes.... Just to the the left of the oval windows. (better have a map... The locals are in another time warp). 3 flights up, A.
Let's not go into all the gory details. It just suffices to know that this was my No 1 paid experience. Indeed it even rivalled a good deal of the non-paid. The first true paid GFE ever, and with my longest DATY ever, and with all the signs of a climax for Ana. Heaven on earth... (I know I know I've met many bad and good actors... still, this felt like the real thing).
Just note I had to work extremely hard for this - I could still feel the creak in my neck two hours on. Also note it comes at the cost in how passionate Sire was served afterwards. Still it was a beauty to behold, that I may keep with me to my dying day.
I had never believed this possible, ever. Miracles apparently happen, and let me just add that it can help if you a cross, as Ana is a true believer. Also it likely helps if your expectations are not too high... as I have after 7 years of rooting in other backyards.
Also I can well imagine others having entirely different experiences... Especially if you put a premium on the flesh (6) rather than the spirit (an unbeatable 10 on this occasion). As usual, the face lags the beach tanned body, as it does for almost all of us as we head towards the 40s.
95 minutes in all, of which 75 was spent frolicking. Yet another recod. A
little upfront bribe and a smart suit might have helped swing it. Yes, earlier on at the beach, I did feel like a penguin at an oasis when my black polished shoes crunched in the sand. Still for once, I got a few stares from the half-naked beachbabes.
Later a sea shore dinner at a balmy and pleasant 30c.... With my best ever bacalhau to date (although standard fare for the natives I suspect)... Manies O Alentejano. Need to check out where the tres haute cuisine might be in this resort. Ideas ?? as I hope to return as quick as my boss will send me to Lisbon again! Thanks ever so much for clear directions.
PS next morning I went back, in between two appointments... I am not a morning guy, but couldn't resist. Ana and Lilia there. They both wanted to come, but given that time was tight, I chose just Ana on her own. Again, sheer bliss. Again, rivals much of the non-paid.
PSS Don't get a fixation on Lilia - all 3 girls need to work, and I am sure kindness will be responded in kind.
Temporary despedida -with cute Inês
Sunday, the sex police caught Muri ‘in flagrante’, dressed only in a tight leather thong and a butt-plug, crawling up the stairs of the pensaõ in the Poço, collecting discarded cigarettes in the hope that they had graced the mouths of Catarina, Iuliana or Sabina.
They only beat him gently, knowing that he would enjoy it too much if they thrashed him hard. But then they came up with a hideous threat: four weeks in sex prison, on Devil’s Island.
Devil’s Island! Every sex offender dreads the horror of being sent to that evil place. The only isle in the world where the sharks and barracudas wear suits and drive cars. The cruel and devious Baron Blair rules over it. Its skies are a year-round chilly blur of grey smoggy cloud and pelting rain.
“Nooooo!” screamed Mur through his studded latex gag. “I implore you – Afghanistan, Guantánamo, not Blair land!”
But the judge was implacable.
“Murilloa, you are a sickening pervert. This court has read transcripts from ISG and GPGuia, heard testimony from the innocent women you have exploited, and masturbated over your photo of Sabina. We can therefore show no pity. Go to England for a month, spend that month with your ex-wife, and may the Good Lord have mercy on your soul.”
“Your honour, puh-leeease, one last request”, begged Mur, knees giving way and bowels evacuating.
“We are listening.”
“Allow me just half an hour with a prostitute in Lisbon before I start my sentence.”
“Request granted, prisoner. I recommend Inês of Cascais, near my beloved tribunal. She is a tiny half-Japanese babe who sucks and fucks like a geisha goddess. Fifty Euros. To be paid from the Portuguese state pension funds. Take the prisoner away.”
“Thank you, your honour, may heaven pour blessings upon you and upon your family”, answered grateful Mur, as the guards dragged his limp body from the courtroom.
So on Monday Muri called at the blue and white door in Cascais and was greeted by a pretty, petite dark minx with brains and attitude in plenty, who gave him a fine send-off. She laid him down like the abject prisoner that he was, and fucked him senseless, a cowgirl to dominate any wild horse in the prairies or pampas. Then she turned passive and bent to be taken from behind, urging him to pound her neat arse until the inevitable and magnificent conclusion.
She talked throughout, but funnily and dirtily. Afterwards she enjoyed and returned tender caresses.
If Muri survives incarceration, he will return, and in the mean time he recommends Inês to those happy mongers still enjoying freedom in lovely Lisboa.
She’s here,
Cascais... Assanhadinha... Menina... Danoninho... Boquinha... Gulosa... Bumbunzinho... Apertadinho... Descobre-me!!! 964126634... [url]www.privatesin.com/ines[/url]
The photos do no justice, but anyhow they will be stored under a semen-soaked mattress in sex prison.
Até logo,
Mur
36 hour parole: part two, Martinha
Martinha returned to Brazil in October or so. Muri had told her the wonders of London, and how even an ornery girl – and our Marti is ornery – can ask £150 per hour in Tony’s capital.
Scanning the net before his surprise mad dash to Portugal (see below) he saw to his delight that the little one is back in Algês. There, they were reunited today, in a scene too moving to recount here, but the story she tells is interesting.
Turns out she bore Muri’s advice in mind, and after Christmas with family, our little lady jumps on a plane to London, shacks up with some acquaintances, disappears into the twilit world of illegal immigrants, meets a nice Brazilian mama-san, and pronto, a week after sliding through Heathrow, she is turning four £150 tricks per day in Bayswater and living like a princess.
This lasts three months and then Blair’s fascisti move in: they send her back to Sambaland. You may think she was lucky not to get shot like her unlucky compatriot last year, but no, she says the boys in blue treated her beautifully and even offered her a female counsellor in case she needed help getting over the terrifying experience of being ‘trafficked’. No, she insisted, but if you really want to help me, just let me stay and continue fucking older English guys for loads and loads of lovely money.
That could not be arranged. She clearly didn’t have the big cash it takes to buy off the law in Blair’s utopia – much less the £5m donation to Labour Party funds which would have made her a duchess. So, deportation, courtesy of the taxpayer, and then she bounces back to Algês.
She is desperate to return to London, which she sees as a terrestrial paradise. It is many years since Muri heard his homeland verbally caressed with such passionate love (after she had finished physically caressing other items). Now, she needs an Englishman prepared to certify that he intends to marry her – or a university to certify that she is a potential student. those are the only ways she can secure a visa to enter Cacatopia.
Let’s send her to Cambridge, to tutor the floppy-haired gay boys and teach them the error of their ways. Or are there any Brits reading this, who would care to propose marriage? She's much too smart for Rooney or Beckham, but what about Paul McCartney, who has recently returned to the life of a penniless 'solteiro'?
Whaddaya think, guys? She is no top model, but a lovely fuck, at least for this hardened sex prisoner. Magnificent BBBJ, tightest pussy of all time, and all she wants is a visa.
C'mon, boys, get there while aged Mur is still hesitating.