Well, who knows about endings?
Last night, L and I had a date scheduled – our first date since our resumption of regularly scheduled programming. It’s funny how these things work: that was three weeks ago, and since then, our relationship has been back to usual – multiple tweets, e-mails, etc., every day – pictures, instructions, games, what have you. It’s been insanely hot, and, truth be told, it’s that, more than the fucking, that we both enjoy most. Which is not to take ANYthing away from the fucking.
Anyway – she got in my car, dressed as I’d requested (I’d asked her to send me choices among her clothes, and had picked out a grey cashmere sweater/dress, black leggings, heeled boots, and black boy shorts with lacy trim). She looked hot, and I could hardly wait to feel my cock against the back of her throat, to shove my hand into her leggings and feel her dripping cunt. I knew she had brought the toys I’d requested as well, that her little JimmyJane vibrator (the one she played with in our Chinese hotel stay) was burning a hole in her bag.
But it wasn’t to be.
I looked in her eyes, and I knew that her departure from home had been strained. I asked her about it.
“You want the truth?” she asked.
You see, I don’t just fuck her – we’re also friends. I imagine myself an ally of hers, of her husband’s, of her marriage, of her family.
Without going into the details, for the second time since I’ve known her, I found myself not fucking her – not because she didn’t want to, not because she wouldn’t, but because it would have been the wrong thing to do.
Another dom might have plowed through her ambivalence, through her situation. Not this one.
Ah, the joys of adulthood.