For rent

In an online conversation, John Doe interspersed telling me all about their very large penis and what they would like to do to me with it, with a request for sex. For money. I appreciated the honesty. There was something very refreshing about a "hey, I'd like to spank you, then fuck you." without all of the associated preamble and meanderings. I explained my relationship status, what the agreement was and suggested that if they were interested in play or similar that they put a request into Sir. The Photographer and I have discussed this situation in the past, and agreed that it was a nice piece of protocol.

So, the note arrives. Sadly brief, and not as well-expressed or spelt as it perhaps might have been, so he said "no". That evening, John Doe gets in touch again, asking if I'd like to do it anyway, "for pocket money". When I let him know that the money is not really a motivation for me, he suggest that perhaps his large cock might be. It is not.

I was cautiously interested, initially, I'll admit. But more by my own imaginings than any sort of reality. The Photographer and I have chatted about him loaning me out for an evening, how it might operate and I was interested in how it might feel, what the effect of serving one person by serving someone else would be. I'm sure that The Photographer is not especially interested in being a pimp, and I don't want to be a prostitute, so that pretty much did if for that.

The money was a side-issue. I don't need money, but it did make a difference to the offer - de-personalise the activity, making it purely transactional, which curiously de-sexualises it for me. Intellectually, I think that the offer of cash might have muddied the waters a bit, it became a job or a task. It became mundane. Similarly the offer of sex wasn't especially important. I didn't know the person: I had never met nor played with them before and there was no photo of him that I could look at to see whether he might have been sexually attractive. There was no sense of being flattered in the offer of money, or in the offer of sex itself, it didn't bestow upon me any sense of value, if anything the price that was given reflected the need of the person offering. He was placing a value on his desire, not on my body.

The "loan" fantasy is a complicated one, clearly. The more I think about it, the more specific it has to be, because of the different levels at play. It is about objectification, about service and about becoming an item of pleasure. About being able to take pride in being a "good girl" who does what she is told, who is able to satisfy at the behest of someone else, regardless of personal feelings. It is about fear and depersonalisation. Fear of the unknown: of being unsure who the person is and what they might do. Then there is the isolation of the event - of being in a new place, unfamiliar surroundings, by myself. These things, mixed together, are quite potent and are certainly exciting. But at the same time I want to be safe, to have my safety assured almost without my knowledge. Like a roller coaster, the thrill exists because the danger is imagined and implied. I don't necessarily want or need to know who I am going to be loaned to, just that they are a known quantity to The Photographer.

I'm not sure whether it is achievable, if I can ever get that balance of safe/not-safe that allows it to play out, or if it will ever do anything for me beyond the excitement generated in my own head. In reality I fear it would be merely an awkward and uncomfortable sexual encounter, embarrassing and unpleasant. Without any form of attraction I'm not sure to what extent the idea of being loaned out would sustain my interest in the activity, and that's without even thinking about whether they were good in bed or handy with a flogger (the thought of being sent out for a purely vanilla fuck is even worse). For the moment then, I'll be content to work it through in my mind.