An American Whorewolf in London Part 3: The Brazilian in Leicester Square

February 14, 2020 By bangkok7

An American Whorewolf in London Part 3: The Brazilian in Leicester Square

Well hello, internet peruser. My name’s Bangkok Seven, and this is my blog. On Friday’s I like to frowback. To go back. To wind back the clock and reminisce about that time we Thailand expats all remember. The time before Thailand, or TBT for short. When life was 100% backwards from what it is now, in this paradise. This Garden of Hedon. For me, it was like emerging from a dark cave into the sunlight for the very first time. Like Dorothy stepping out of her crashed house into Technicolor. My days and ways from birth to rebirth in Thailand seemed to’ve largely been a waste. Waste of time, waste of talent, waste of emotion, most of which was dark and dismal. Thailand turned all that around.

And still, there are a few bright spots along that gloomy path in the TBT, some of which sprang up in my previous travels. In a year spent living and working in the UK, I had the chance to lay my depraved and deprived hands on the lithe, luxurious bodies of a handful of sex goddesses. The first frowback of the series cast a spotlight on a Thai girl living in London. Last week’s recounted a goddess from Denmark. Today’s offering had a decidedly more Latin flavor…

I found her on Cragislist, back when it was as easy as that. She and her friend had a hotel room near Leicester Square. I scheduled an appointment, spent the morning in the Natural History Museum, and then strolled over to her place just after lunch. It was a sunny day, and cool enough that she had the windows of her 2nd story room open, the street below bustling with folks doing daytime activities. She led me to the bed and began to undress me. “It’s been a long time since you last got laid, hasn’t it baby?” she asked. I didn’t want to tell her I nailed a hot Dane in Kensington the week before so I simply said, “…..Yeahh.” She smiled. “I can tell. I can see it in your eyes.” Shows what you know, I thought. She got undressed, revealing a magnificent frame, smooth olive skin, large natural breasts, and not an ounce of fat anywhere, and knelt on the floor between my knees.

She told me she hailed from Sao Paolo. Her accent was already muddied with a London one, but it didn’t diminish her appeal. She had long flaxen hair with blonde streaks in it, green eyes, and full luscious lips. She asked me if I wanted a blowjob and I said “Yes please.” After a couple of minutes she told me I could finish in her mouth. A tempting offer, but I didn’t take the train in from Essex for a bj. I’d come to fuck. So after a few more minutes of half-hearted knob-gobbling, I lifted her onto the bed. She planted a condom on me and I started going to town. “Whoa, easy cowboy. We’re not in a hurry. No need to go so hard so soon.” In my mind I was saying, “It’s my money, bitch. I’ll do you how I want” but out loud I said, “…OK.” Then I went as hard as I could as fast as I could for as long as I could. Her plaintive cries echoed round the neighborhood, and I paused long enough to look out the window. A few bystanders were looking up, turning their heads from side to side trying to discern from where those lovely moans emanated. I ducked back down and continued to pound. Her cries became gradually more plaintive until finally she grabbed my arms, turned me onto the mattress, and straddled me. She then began an intricate series of rhythmic contortions that she clearly knew would bring her to orgasm. I became her human dildo. I think she even reached a point where she forgot I was even there, until a realized I was close to finishing. I sheepishly tapped her on the forearm and said, “I—um…I’m going to—” at which point she let out a low moan, shuttering uncontrollably, pulling the jizz right out of me, and collapsed on top of me, breathing hard.

She closed her eyes and just lay there for a moment. I could feel her heart slowing. Then she sat up and kissed my cheek. We got dressed and she actually thanked me, saying she hadn’t had that much fun in a while, which I assumed was something she told all her customers. But then as I left and she shut the door, she let out a scream that sounded to me like either ecstatic release or abject mockery. I’ve never been able to figure out which, so I tell myself it was ecstasy.

Then I went record shopping in Camden and finished the day with 1-pound Chinese and a Tuborg next to the canal. All in all, a sweet memory for my coming-of-age record. It stands in stark contrast to my next encounter with a London-born blonde the following weekend. But that story will have to wait till next Friday.

Between now and then, keep your balls warm, your beer cold, and cheers to all the girls we’ve loved before, both Thai and not Thai—and aren’t those really the only two real categories? Peace out.