It seems like forever before he appears. The light has been steadily fading since we met at the restaurant and for a second I’m not totally sure it’s him.
But his head-to-toe denim uniform gives him away. There’s also his gait. He’s walking very slowly, like he’s worried that the ground is unstable and might break apart under his feet.
I wait until he’s a few paces past my hiding spot, then stand and walk silently towards him. From the location, to what I’m wearing, to the dialogue, we’ve gone over nearly every detail of the scene. But as I’m approaching, I realize that we haven’t discussed the most dangerous part, namely how to choreograph holding the knife to his throat.
He’d been very clear in advance that if the knife was fake the scene wouldn’t work for him. He needs the feeling of it against his skin. I’d done a bit of research and, at least according to some paramilitary and end-of-the-world message boards, the amount of pressure it takes to sever the jugular is actually pretty minimal. Calling an ambulance while I wrap my T-shirt around his neck is not part of the fantasy, so caution is going to be key.
When I’m about a metre behind him, I lurch forward and clap my gloved hand over his mouth, pulling him towards me. He inhales sharply as if he’s going to scream but doesn’t say anything. Gingerly, I apply the knife to his neck, just under his chin.
“Do exactly what I say, otherwise I’m going to cut your fucking throat,” I whisper in his ear, as I pull him backwards with me, behind the bushes. Satisfied that we’re sufficiently hidden, I begin running my hands over his body. There’s a wad of cash in his back pocket, exactly where we’d agreed it would be, and I pull it out.
“This all you got?” I ask hoarsely.
He stammers a yes, through my gloved hand, which is still clamped over his mouth.
“That’s not gonna be good enough,” I growl. “You’re gonna have to give me something . . . more.”
“I don’t have any more,” he whispers. “I’ll do whatever you say though. Please just don’t kill me.”
“What are you willing to do?”
“Anything you want.”
It’s not specifically called for here, but I decide to take a little pause in the script to let the tension build. I keep one palm clamped over his mouth and let the other hand holding the knife trail down his body. I pause over his groin, resting the knife directly over the spot where I can feel his cock hardening in his jeans. He inhales sharply through my gloved fingers.
I briefly contemplate trying to take things in a new direction. But in the eight pages he sent me, he never once mentioned threats of genital mutilation as a turn on, so I decide to go back on course and return the knife to his throat.
“Get on your knees,” I say.
He moves as if he’s going to kneel, but struggles with his balance a bit. I quickly release my knife-wielding hand from his throat and extend it in front of him so he has something to hold onto as he lowers himself to the ground.
Once he’s there I realize we need to adjust our position. He’s currently facing out towards the field, which means if I walk around in front of him I’ll have my back in that direction. Part of my task in the situation is to be lookout, so I need to turn him around.
There’s also the issue of my dick. I’ve never been one of those guys who can just whip it out and be hard right away. I need something to turn me on. I can always find a way with clients — a little kissing, a little cuddling. But it’s not going to get hard by itself without some kind of stimulation. The scene is written so that I’m already hard when he takes me in his mouth, so I need to sort that out.
Keeping one hand clamped over his mouth, I release the knife from his throat, tuck it in my back pocket, and slide my hand down my pants and start fumbling with my junk. I rotate through a few different fantasies, my eyes slightly closed, trying to get hard. But the adrenaline of the situation and the fear that we might get caught is drawing blood away to more important places, and I can only manage a semi.
“Turn around,” I say.
He struggles on his hands and knees to reorient himself to face me. His eyes are closed, but I clamp my hand over them anyway as he instructed. I unzip my jeans, pull my dick out, take the knife from my back pocket and place it against his throat again. He opens his mouth without me saying anything.
Looking down at him, he seems so . . . small; this tiny little guy on his knees, with a knife to his throat, waiting to suck me off so I don’t kill him.
I don’t tend to think too much about where clients’ fantasies come from. Our sexual imaginations are always a complex combination of influences and experiences, gleaned from different phases in our lives. But I’m suddenly struck with a strange, sad affection for him. What exactly happened to you that brought you here to me like this?
It’s not a question he’s going to answer in this moment, and frankly, it’s not my place to ask. I just stick my mostly-limp dick in his mouth, and he starts sucking it hungrily. I glance back and forth across the field.
It’s getting dark, but I can still see clearly in both directions. I give a little start when a plastic bag suddenly blows across my field of vision. But other than that, the space is totally dead.
I don’t know anything about his previous sexual experiences, but it’s obviously not the first time he’s had a dick in his mouth and his technique is surprisingly good. I manage to get fully hard and then slowly began fucking his face.
“Suck that cock or I’ll cut your throat,” I murmur.
The last part of the scene is for me to come in his mouth, which has me worried, since I often find it hard to climax just by getting sucked. The situation itself isn’t a turn on or a turn off. It’s oddly neutral, non-sexual almost.
I glance down at him. He’s got his eyes closed as he mouths my dick. What’s going on in his mind? He hasn’t said the safe word, so I’m assuming things are going fine. But is he getting what he wants from the scene?
Getting as much detail in advance of a roleplay scenario is an asset. But at the same time, the more precisely laid out the scene, the harder it is to get it right. In this case, he’s already given me more details than any of my other clients, which gives me a lot to go on, but also a lot of ways in which it can go wrong.
I can’t tell whether I’m giving him what he needs and there’s not really a delicate way to pause the scene and ask. But the blowjob is unexpectedly good and after a few minutes, I shoot in his mouth and withdraw.
I tuck the knife in my back pocket, shove my dick in my pants, and quickly walk away, exactly as I’d been instructed. I pull off the balaclava as I walk and clench it in my hand. I feel like Lot escaping Sodom and Gomorrah, straining not to look back over my shoulder.
I imagine him lying in a heap, sobbing on the ground, and it’s taking every ounce of self-control not turn around and go back to check on him. But I just keep walking, the power lines buzzing above me, until I emerge back onto the street and head towards my bike.
Next: When sex work is unsexy (Part 1) >
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