Warning: this story is a bit gross. Don’t read if you have emetophobia.
The most unusual place I’ve ever stayed, was with a sugar daddy who was living in an old American style campervan. I knew before arranging to stay with him, that he was a smoker and had a puppy, and that he wasn’t exactly loaded; so, my expectations were fairly low. I was expecting a dirty, nicotine-stained bachelor pad, stinking of tobacco and dog, therefore was pleasantly surprised when I got there, and found that it was nowhere near as bad as I’d anticipated. I mean, his beaten-up old van wasn’t going to be featured in any magazines, but it was homely and fairly comfortable, if not a bit chaotic and messy. As it turns out, this was just as well…
Peter and I had met for a few drinks the week before, just to see how we got on etc; but this was our first ‘proper’ meeting. As soon as I got there, I was ushered in and handed a cider, which I gratefully accepted. He’d been feeling nervous so had started without me; apparently in need of some Dutch courage… bless him.
I do a quick scan of the campervan, to make sure I’m happy to stay over before accepting a second drink. I wasn’t worried about staying with Peter, he was a bit rough around the edges, but I knew we’d be ok; and yes, maybe the accommodation wasn’t up to my usual standards, but so what, I’d slept in worse places.
After a few drinks in the campervan, we take a taxi into town and grab bite to eat in one of the local pubs. By the time we get back to the campervan we’ve both had quite a few pints, but it’s fairly early, so we put on a film and continue drinking. I’d been drinking cider all night, but Peter cracks open a bottle of red wine and pours me a glass.
Things are progressing well, the booze is flowing, and Peter’s initial shyness has worn off. My tights and knickers have been discarded, and Peter’s hand is between my legs, his fingers gently exploring my pussy; neither of us is paying any attention to the film in the background.
After getting me nicely excited, we head to the bedroom, where we both get naked before climbing into bed. He’s had a fair bit to drink and as a result needs a little ‘encouragement’ down there, so I head south and start sucking his semi erect cock. He’s responding well, and I can feel his penis growing harder as I pleasure him with my mouth. I’m just getting into it, taking him deep down my throat when the feeling hits; the overwhelming urge to vomit.
I jump out of bed, and desperately start opening doors looking for the tiny bathroom which I know is there somewhere, I’m disorientated and confused though. I open what I think is the bathroom door, only to see a cupboard full of shirts on hangers, I open the next door, more bloody clothes… My hand is over my mouth, but I can’t hold back the tidal wave of vomit erupting from within me. I close the door just in time, as vomit sprays all over the cupboard doors and onto the floor; my hand helpless against a tide of bright red liquid being ejected from my body. I turn around to find the bathroom door, which was right behind me the whole time. I open the door and aim for the toilet, just in time for another wave of vomit, some of which finds the toilet, whilst the rest splatters all over the toilet seat and the floor; it looks like a scene from a horror film. I hear Peter outside the bathroom sounding concerned, asking me if I’m OK, and if I need any help. He does the obligatory carrot joke, and I hear him in the passageway trying to clean up the mess, whilst inside the bathroom I attempt to scrape up the vomit from around the toilet with my hands and some toilet roll.
I have to shower because I stink and have sick in my hair; afterwards I lie on the sofa in Peter’s dressing gown whilst he gently brushes my wet hair, and reassures me that everything is OK. I feel better for being sick, but mortified at my behaviour, and my inability to hold my drink (which isn’t normally an issue).
He did a good job cleaning up, and thankfully the carpet which took most of the damage, was old and stained anyway, so it wasn’t too obvious (would have to be carpet wouldn’t it…).
The next morning before I leave, Peter rescues his puppy from the next-door neighbour who’d looked after him for the night. After saying hello to me and giving me good old sniff, the little Jack Russell goes straight over to the freshly cleaned carpet where I’d been sick, and does a big shit; which made me feel better, at least I didn’t shit on the carpet.
Despite redecorating his place with bright red vomit, Peter does see me again (several times), but I stick to cider or gin and avoid red wine.
Emily-Rose xxx
Sugar and Spice 
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