The year was 1928. I had spent the last three years working in a small brothel in London that smelled of sweat and tobacco and burning rose petals. I had only just turned 19. I smoked cigarettes from a long, thin holder and walked around in a floral silk robe that was easily the most expensive thing I would ever touch. It had been a present from one of my regulars, a Chinese man with a surprisingly thick cock that visited every month or so. I remember the night he brought it back for me after we had fucked two or three times. He told me I had the tightest pussy he had ever felt. He was going back to China for several years for business, and he would miss me. I never knew if the men I served said those things because they were true, or because they liked doting on a beautiful woman. I didn't care. I loved my silk robe and the way my naked tits hardened when they brushed against the smooth material, swaying back and forth freely and making my pussy tingle and burn.
Sometimes I would catch one of the girls looking me, eyeing me up and down and I could tell she was thinking about licking my pussy and what it would feel like to make me come hard. I had never had sex with any of the girls working, although some nights I could hear through the walls that my friends were pleasuring each other after a hard day's work. Sometimes a male customer would not be able to satisfy one of the whores, so she would walk into a friend's room, pussy throbbing, begging to be eaten out.
I would hear the sweet smacking of tongue and pussy lips, the moaning and sometimes screaming if she wanted it bad enough. I never was brave enough to venture in to the room, but I knew that others were. Nevertheless, I had always dreamed of tasting pussy.
