Now, to recover. Thanks for all your well wishes.
I haven’t been writing much here. That either will continue for a bit, or it will reverse, in the coming days. I have no idea how I’ll be feeling after my upcoming surgery, whether I’ll feel sexual, whether I’ll have anything I want to share. I’ll check in from time to time. (I’ll certainly have time on my hands. I expect to be home-bound for two months or so.)
Similarly, if you correspond with me offline, I expect that, for at least a bit longer, my responsiveness (in both senses) will be somewhat less than it usually is.
Wish me luck.
Lida decided not to go through with our date plans. As I wrote,I was disappointed. I am disappointed. She’s just lovely, and our connection was a good one. I hate giving up on good connections, because they are so few and far between.
Here is one vision of what our second date might have looked like that I shared with her:
There were a couple of elements that were less than smoking hot – most notably, the chaste kiss hello and good-bye. Were these indications that she wasn’t into me? That the chemistry I felt wasn’t reciprocated? Or were they something else? Something having to do with the passage from fantastical into real? Or simply the fact of our being in a public place? I didn’t over-interrogate these questions. Our conversation was hot. She did, after all, remove her panties for me, and she did, after all, tell me she would suck my cock just a few days hence.
And in the hours following, she sent me her next orgasm. I can’t even count how many times she came for me in the very few days between when we first corresponded and this last one, sent less than two hours after we’d said good-bye.
But I knew something was off. And she confirmed this, just a day later, when she told me that somehow, the excitement she’d felt, we’d both felt, prior to meeting hadn’t survived our meeting in person. Was she sparing my ego by giving me an explanation that had nothing to do with chemistry, one that was all about the dynamics of transitioning from fantastical to real? I can’t, honestly, know. What she told me was that, somehow, once the fact of my drenching her cunt was no longer “private,” “secret,” now that we had seen one another, had been seen with one another, the compulsion she’d previously felt to suck my cock had diminished.
I had ideas. Ways we could re-emphasize the secret elements. Ways we could step back from the “public.” We wouldn’t speak. I would tell her what to do at a distance. She would wait for me. Or I would wait for her. Wordlessly, we would consummate the fantasies I’d been hatching for days.
I could share them all with you, but you could, honestly, guess them. You’ve read enough here to know what I like, how I get off on the tension between the public and the private, the shared and the secret.
Anyway, the bottom line is this: I will not, it seems, feel her mouth on my cock. She will not feel my tongue on her clit. And as sweet as they smell, I have no use for her panties. I’d planned to return them. But it seems I won’t get the chance. What does a boy do with a pair of panties he won’t have the chance to return? When I was younger, I actually had a collection. Nowadays, I don’t. I found myself simply disposing of them.
Shame, that. I’m kinda heartbroken. I haven’t entirely given up. I have at least a little hope that she may yet change her mind, that she may yet decide that what I have to offer is compelling. But it’s just a little hope… Not much.
“What should I have you wear for me?!?” I wrote. I added, “I’m psyched to feel you.”
“Hmmm…. Good question…” Isabel replied. “And me too ;)”
Some hours passed. She wrote again, the subject line, “Isabel’s suggestion….” The text of the e-mail read, “A light-weight tank top. No bra – with underwear. If N. wants that….”
“N. likes the sound of that. And wants.”
There was a subsequent exchange about Isabel’s paranoia. She wanted me to be sure to be quiet, lest her neighbors, or landlords, know that she (gasp) sometimes has sex. Sometimes, I enjoy playing with, teasing her about, her paranoia. In this instance, I wasn’t so inclined. She does have to live there.
The morning of, there was another exchange: “Would you find something I can use as a blindfold, please? A scarf, perhaps?”
“Thank you. I’ll be there in ten,” I wrote. “After buzzing me in, please unlock your door, lie on your bed, legs spread for me, and play with yourself. After you blindfold yourself. ;-)”
“Yes thank you,” Isabel replied. “I’m pretty sure I’m already wet with anticipation…. Please lock top and bottom lock when you enter,” she added.
“Will do,” I assured her.
Ten minutes later, I entered her bright, cozy apartment. To my right was the hall leading to her bathroom, kitchen, living room. To my left, her bedroom. The bedroom door was open, and she lay on her bed, legs spread, in a thin pink ribbed silk tank top, and black cotton bikini briefs. And a black scarf covering her eyes. As she writhed in pleasure, playing with her pussy.
She‘s much prettier than her photos – dozens of them – had led me to believe. Her smile is bright, wide, open, pretty. Her eyes, deep pools of brown. Her skin is smooth, caramel.
Her breasts are big, full, round. She’s not slender, not fat. She wishes she weighed less, but that’s not interesting. I certainly don’t.
We chatted for a few minutes. About sex and sexuality, our educations, our careers, our sexual histories. I’d instructed her that her finger should smell of her cunt when we met, but if it did, her cunt’s smell is subtle, clean. I barely detected it as she offered me the middle finger on her left hand.
We ordered drinks. Talked some more. I interrupted her. “I’d like you to go to the ladies’ room, please. While you’re there, I’d like you to come for me, if you can. If you can’t, that’s ok, but please try.”
It has come to my attention that there are some among my readers who have, on one or more occasions, gotten themselves off as a result either of things I’ve written here, things I’ve posted on my Tumblrs (pictures and gifs and funny porn), or both.
This pleases me.
More than that, this makes my cock hard.
If you are among those most valued of my readers, I have a favor to ask of you: please thank me.
You may thank me in one of many ways. With your written words, tell me. Tell me what got you off, how you got yourself off, when, where, wearing what.
With your spoken words. Tell me in your voice. Record yourself. Tell me what it is I’ve done to you.
With images. Send me tasteful, suggestive photos or videos in appreciation.
In other ways, ways only you can come up with.
But please. Thank me. Doing so will make my cock hard, will get me off.
I promise: nothing you send me will appear here or anywhere else, unless you explicitly request that. (Read here for more details on all that I promise.)
This is not a sexy post. If you’re here for the sexy, don’t click through. If you are interested in the indisputably not sexy, read on.
She’s young, hungry. After a brief flirtation with brattiness, she seems to have discovered a, um, full-throated desire to please me, to give me what I want. Precisely what I want. Precisely when I want. This is a welcome development in my life at this moment, when, as I’ve written, there’s much that’s not quite as I might have it.
The other day, she asked me if she could come for me. She had told me that she had been, um, enjoying, my “Orgasms, orgasms, orgasms” page. I got the sense she might like to have an orgasm or two of her own up there. We had a smoking hot exchange. I told her she could come for me, after I’d heard her ask me in her voice. She sent me her voice, quivering with need.
“Your voice is really, really sexy,” I wrote. “Yes, you may come. In a moment. AFTER you show me your ass, and your thighs, and your cunt, in your jeans. I think that’ll take at least two pictures. And if your hand is in your pussy, under your jeans, then, I’d like you to come twice. But first, please press send on the photos.”
Almost instantly, three photos arrived. One, of her, topless, in jeans, in front of a mirror. Her breasts are big, round. Her skin is caramel, smooth. The second, she’s topless, and a hand is down her jeans. In the third, she’s turned to the side, straining to show me her ass, but not quite succeeding.
“Mmmmm. Good girl. Pretty girl,” I responded. “If you can show me a better picture of your pretty ass – jeans down, bending over – panties on (if you’re wearing them) – then I want you to come three times for me. But I want to hear them all.”
Moments later, I got what I’d asked for, but not quite. Her ass is luscious, round, full. NOT small. But it was a side view, and she wasn’t, truthfully, so much as “bent over” as “leaning, a little.”
“Mmm. But that’s still a side view. Turn around. Bend over. Shoot the mirror through your legs. Please. Then, come four times for me.”
Desperate, she sent two pictures, blurry, of her desperately bent over, her ass to me, her fingers touching her pussy through her panties. Her ass looked spectacular. “Fuck you let me come,” she wrote.
“Apologize. Then come five times for me.” I added, “You have a magnificent ass.” And said, “If you apologize in your voice, while you touch your pussy, you may come six times for me.”
Some minutes passed. I wrote, “How you doing over there?”
She replied, “Ok I’m sorry. I will apologize on the recording. Do I have permission to come for you now?”
“Please send the recording apologizing first, if you want to come five times. If you want to come four times, please feel free to start. As soon as possible when you’re done, I want to see your pretty face.” A moment later, I wrote, “Sorry… six and five…. I lost count.” And I had. I was all excited by imagining what was happening by her….
Some time passed. And then, an e-mail, with an attachment. “You just get one.”
“I’ll delete it without listening. I want five please.”
“Your choice. I promise it’s good. Goodnight.” She accompanied that e-mail with a picture of her face, pretty, sated. Full lips, big brown eyes, tired.
I haven’t listened to that one. I won’t. But you may, if you wish. It’s right here. Is it good? (I don’t know, and I don’t care.)
There’s more. It will follow. She hasn’t yet sucked my cock, but I did get, she did get, you will get, my orgasms….
There’s lots going on, most not good, which is why I haven’t been writing much.
But my cock is HARD….