Now. This most decidedly didn’t happen. This was sort of a “study” for the night that is described beginning here. But it gives you a little insight into how I planned the evening – I wrote this the day of the date, in an idle few minutes.
I sit outside, the car running, the heat on, the radio on. (I’m listening to Led Zeppelin.)
Where is she?
Ah – there she is. Véronique struts in. She looks like she’s trying to look confident, comfortable, care-free. She’s fucking hot: she’s wearing black heeled booties, tights, tight black dress with thin white horizontal stripes (low back, no bra). I’d asked her for three choices. The others were low black boots, black jeans, a black silky sleeveless top with some see-through netting on top, and a red short dress, zipper all the way down the back, black thigh highs, black boots. I chose the tight black dress because, well, to begin with, I fucking love a tight black dress. But also, I just loved the idea of her pussy pressing against panties pressing against tights. And I didn’t want her breasts in a bra. And I wanted to see her back.
I text her – “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Have a drink.”
I close my eyes, stroke my cock through my jeans. Can I seriously do this? Can I really make her wait? Can I really wait, myself?
In eight minutes, I text. “I’m outside – chug your drink and come across the street. I’m in the blue Honda.”
She comes out, and sees the car running, but I’m not in it. She looks around, confused. The doors unlock. Her phone vibrates. “Get in.”
She gets in.
I text her: “Start playing with yourself.”
She does as she’s told.
I lock the doors.
I unlock the doors.
(This is as sadistic as I get – but right now a sly smile is crossing my face.)
I lock the doors, unlock them, once more.
I approach the car, and open the passenger side. I unzip my jeans and ease my cock out. “Aren’t you going to kiss me hello?” I say.
She leans forward and goes to take my cock into her mouth.
“Actually, not here,” I say.
I put my cock back in my pants, close the door, and walk around to the driver’s side.
I climb in. “Keep playing with yourself,” I say.
(I’ve never, honestly, been one for the blowjob in the driver’s seat. Maybe it’s because I read The World According to Garp at a crucial, formative age.)
I don’t want to go back to the Liberty Inn – there’s nothing that wrong with it, but I want a different feel for the evening. Some variety.
It’s tough though: T’s and my ground rules place our house off limits. V has a roommate. Who is home.
I drive to a nearby hotel – it’s fine, not luxurious, but not an hourly place. I tell her to sit in the car, and to leave me a long, sexy voicemail while I check in, for me to listen to later.
I check in, and bring her a key.
“Go up to the room,” I say. “Draw a bath, and get in. Call me. I want to hear you make yourself cum in the bathtub.”
I sit in the car and begin to listen to her recording to me while she draws the bath.
Then I decide, fuck it.
I hang up the phone and head up to the room. Silently, even while the water’s still running, I open the door. She’s not yet nude, the tub’s not yet full. I grab her, spin her around, and say, “I know what you really want is to suck my cock, right?”
“May I suck your cock?”
“May I suck your cock, please?” she asks. She’s pleading. Her eyes are looking up at me.
“Play with yourself,” I say….