Apr 092012
 

You walk in, trying to look calm.  Your flight was delayed.  You had worried you would miss me altogether, that we wouldn’t have just a little time, but instead, none.  My instructions to you had been specific – so specific they were both annoying and exciting:  wear jeans, wear a specific pair of panties, bring a spare pair of black boyshorts, bring a vibrator, arrive with the smell of (your) cunt on at least one finger, bring a skirt to change into right after meeting me….

I have told you that you make me hot, that your pictures, your words, your voice all are capable of sending me into paroxysms of pleasure.  You have told me that I make your cunt ache with anticipation, that you desperately need the fucking you imagine I will give you.

And so, when you walk in, you wonder, as you scan the bar, passing your eyes appraisingly over the various men there – the hipsters, the suits, the preps:  is it him?  You know a bit about what I look like, but not much.  You know I have a beard, that it was scraggly today.

When your eyes alight on me, you know, instantly:  the beard might have done it, but my eyes, so palpably undressing you already, were the giveaway.  My eyes come to rest on your breasts – full, straining against your t-shirt – the t-shirt I’d asked you to wear.  They rest there a moment too long, before they rise to your eyes.  You look at my cock – it strains against my jeans, and I adjust myself, obviously.

You come over and kiss me hello.  I pull your head to me, hard.  Our tongues find one another.

I pull your ass toward me, your cunt presses against my cock, through our jeans.

“Go change,” I say.

You’re taken aback:  these are the first two words you’ve ever heard me speak, but you do as I say.  You’re not sure why, but you know it feels good to do so.  You go to the bathroom, and you change.  You strip off your jeans, your panties (which, by the way, are drenched).  You put on the panties I’d asked you to bring, and you stuff the jeans in your bag, the panties in your hand.

I’m gratified by your compliance – and your beauty.  You make me feel pleased, proud, in this bar.  I’m the only guy who’s getting laid tonight, and I’m getting laid by YOU – by the hottest woman there.

You come out to meet me.

“Hi, gorgeous,” I say.  “Hey,” you say, shyly, looking up into my eyes.  Again, we kiss.  Again, I pull our bodies together.

“So,” I say.  “You warned me that you weren’t sure…” I start.

“I’m sure,” you say, interrupting me.  “I want your cock,” you say.  “Please.”

Together, we leave.

  5 Responses to “Your pulse races”

  1. Beautiful. It happens. Rarely, but when it does it is beautiful just as you describe.

  2. So hot. The details!

     Lucky girl

  3. I’m jealous. Very jealous. 

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