"The Best Dick Sucking Married Housewives"!

Ranking My Best French Fucks In Montreal

Lena wanted babies, I didnt. We broke up from there.

(Shannon above with me having green tea and French pastries) My grand mother told me. Good pussy will get you a apartment, good head will get you a house"!! Ladies learn now to suck a dick, especially a big black one!!!!

You see, Lena walked in on me playing around with Shannon, but Lena knew the business, she is from Italy. She told me straight up, "have your fun with her and then get your ass over here and be with me. I miss Lena, she was down and had my back"!

I remember rushing to the airport only to find out my flight was delayed 1 hour. Pam had no problem letting me bend her over in the bathroom, Montreal does NOT have a busy airport and the french are some freaky motherfuckers, so fucking in a stall is not considered a big deal! That was our last encounter. Im back in the U.S now, and the chicks here are laughable, compared to the French!

Anna likes humiliation!

Most white guys try to make love to Anna. I dont! Anna will test the boundaries of a guy and if he is soft she turns into a BITCH!!! No joke! Im talking about personal relationships, not her call girl life! Now I enter the picture, tall, 6'2, dark, tattos, well fit and not giving a shit! Anna did several dirty blowjob movies with me! She tried to test me early, I shut that shit down. The first joke of a test was Anna, starting off sucking my dick for 3 minutes and then saying, "Im tired, can I smoke a cigarette now"?

I reply, fuck no! Stay your ass down their and lick my "black balls"! Anna frowns at me, I frown back! Then she smirks, because she knows I know her little games! I grabbed her head and make her deep throat my dick, LOL! Anna vomits on the floor, for the 5th time! This chick has a gag reflex, like I care, my dick will stay hard regardless! There are countless videos online where chicks throw up on my balls and my dick is rock hard!

Anna still see's me, because I MAKE her do shit the white boys won't!

Oh don't feel sorry for this chick, because as soon as I stop humiliating her, she will stop picking up my calls! Her train of thought is, if you dont humiliate my pretty ass, I will find a guy who will"! We often role play, her favorite for some stupid reason is the black drug dealer thug shit! I would play like I was selling her cocaine, but she wouldnt have enough money, I would then make her do nasty shit to get the prime drugs"! The shit would be twisted and ghetto but end up with her being called a "pretty slut who is not worthy of the good things in life"! This bitch has some good pussy too"!

 By the way, my crazy French call girl sex freak got some guy to give her $70k for a down payment for her new condo! I laughed at that shit when she told me. The guy thought because he gave her alot of money he could stay over, Anna let him stay for 1 week then changed the locks! "He was too much of a nice guy for her"! LOL, I made her take my thick black dick up the ass after that story! (white guys do the darnest things)!

Never the less I will be in Quebec later this month, Anna wants me to come by and fuck her throat and pussy hole, so Im sure I will have some new crazy shit to write about. I know she can be a Diva, but we have alot of dirty nasty fun together"!!

As I was growing up, my mother worked as a housekeeper in a bohemian part of London full of hookers and artists. My family — my brother, sister, mother and often absent father — lived in a leaking basement flat of a large Victorian house, which had rooms that my mother would clean and deliver breakfast to. When I was 10, three prostitutes moved in. My mother kept their profession a secret from us, but I noticed they were very different from her — they were covered in make-up, wore low-cut tops and would sit very provocatively on the doorstep with their legs open; if she saw us on the doorstep, she would scream at us.

In our teens, we gradually worked it out, after noticing how they’d sleep in the day, then go out at night and return with men. There was only one telephone, so my mum would always rush to answer it, to prevent us doing so, but my sister and I became inquisitive and started picking up the phone. If we said the girls weren’t in, the callers would ask us if we were on the game. We’d make up names for ourselves, such as Letitia, from EastEnders, and say, “We’ll give you the full works,” a term we’d overheard. We’d arrange appointments, and men would come round. My mother would answer the door and quickly slam it. A couple of times, men wanted us to go into detail: “What colour are your knickers?” That was too much, it scared us and we’d hang up.

The men didn’t frighten us, but my mother was very protective. The girls had a pimp, and I always felt he would intervene. He was very controlling, and at night he would keep vigil in the bathroom. One woman was a heroin addict, which shocked me. I never saw her shoot up, but she physically deteriorated in front of us. We became friendly, though I never spoke about it with my mother. When I was 14, one prostitute’s brother arrived to get over heroin — he died two weeks later of an overdose. I remember the girl coming screaming to my mother. And there were terrifying police raids in the night that woke us up with loud banging on the door. My mother would soothe us with hot milk and a biscuit. Her policy was never to tell us what was really going on — she covered up the police raids as if they were a treat. She never showed her emotions — I guess she buried most of the pain — but had the meanest temper, so we didn’t dare ask her anything.

I never felt safe at home, but I couldn’t talk to my mother, and wasn’t allowed to speak to anyone else. My mother wanted us to pretend it wasn’t happening — respectability was the most important thing to her. She comes from a very proud Spanish family, and was deeply ashamed of her life and didn’t want her relations to know. The shame was infectious. I took on the habit of lying from a young age, and began a double life. To friends, I invented a happy alternative, that we were middle class, that we owned our home, that I had a normal family. I put on a posh accent and remember people calling me a snob. Lying was my tool for survival. The lies made the emotion easier to manage, and I became very numb to the events. I buried a lot as well — I don’t remember half my childhood, but I have diaries from my teens. I was clearly depressed and very insecure. My diaries were the only outlet.

We moved out when I was 17, when the owner of the house decided to sell, but my upbringing influenced everything I did — I had seen how you could end up so low in the class system. My way out was education, so I was the first person in my family to get a degree. I developed a fear and lack of respect for men — it only seemed to end in sex, which I thought was perverse. When, at 19, I had my first boyfriend, I was frigid and nervous.

I’m 41 now, married with three children — a son, aged 11, a daughter, aged 5, and a 19-year-old stepson — and I’m trying to reverse those influences. My husband and I are completely open with each other. I found a kindred spirit — his childhood was worse than mine. But initially he had a very different impression of me. He tells me I used to behave like an airhead — that was my defence to keep men at a distance.

I never confronted my mother, but in my early twenties it came out organically and that was hugely cathartic. Now we’re adults, she’s totally open. To open up these secrets felt like a great burden had been lifted. It led to a change in our relationship, where she recognised me as an adult. But she wasn’t embarrassed about having lied. She endured Franco’s dictatorship as a child, where covering up the truth was important. Having left London for a clean start, I didn’t have to tell my close friends about my life — it was upsetting and it made me feel weak.

Then, six years ago, my sister moved to my area. She is much more open; she has a London accent and, when you meet her, it’s clear we don’t come from a conventional middle-class family. I felt terror about her arrival. I was going to have to rewrite myself completely. I was forced to become more honest. I had spent a long time adapting my story so people would like me, but I had to accept some people won’t like me for not being a posh intellectual. I feel lighter now; the truth has given me back the ability to enjoy life. Lying was always on my conscience, I always felt fraudulent. I finally feel what I imagine normal people feel like. I’m happy with who I am now. In fact, I feel I’ve done very well, considering.