You read part 1 here. We pick up our story with her lying on her stomach, legs spread, ice and hot wax on her ass.
I dove in, lapping her cunt ferociously.
Let me pause to describe not what we were doing, but what I was feeling.
Véronique is sexy. She’s young. The mere facts of her existence – her age, her beauty – inspire competing feelings in me. On the one hand, I’m a red-blooded 40-something male, and the interest – no, devotion – of a hot, oversexed 20-something chick is inevitably flattering. In a way that we men sadly are hard-wired to find so. Add to that that this is a personal interest, one not just in my body, in my tongue, in my cock, but is one that is informed by, brought about by, her having read this blog for almost a year. And you see how she feeds me, feeds my narcissism. On the other hand, there’s something… almost scary about her youth, her beauty. I’m a big fan of Dan Savage’s campsite rule – the premise that in a relationship characterized by age or power difference, it’s the “dominant” parties’ obligation to leave the more vulnerable participants “in better shape than they found them.” This is a lot of responsibility, and while I don’t think I’ve ever actually hurt anyone in my slutty recent existence, I live in terror of doing so.
And on the third hand, there’s something… unseemly… about a 40-something guy taking on as a toy a 20-something hottie. It just doesn’t look good (except to other 40-something guys).
And then there’s HER – the facts about her that draw me to her apart from her hunger for me. She’s intellectually compelling to me: I’m surrounded by women her age much of every day (for professional reasons). I can barely sustain a conversation with any of them. I can with her. (I’ll note, it could be that I’m deceived here, either that she’s not so smart, or that those other women aren’t so much less so, and that I’m deceived because we’re talking about sex, dating, relationships 99% of the time we’re talking. Maybe I’d find all those young women riveting if what we were talking about was my cock, their mouths. I can’t in good faith rule out that possibility.)
But anyway, I like her. I like that in our email exchanges she has revealed that she spells perfectly, has perfect grammar. That she’s funny, acerbic, a smart-ass. And that she, so far, has given me almost everything I’ve asked of her. I like that she seems not just compliant but HUNGRY to comply. That complying seems to get her wet just as it gets me hard.
So to see her on the bed, splayed before me, legs spread, pussy dripping? That’s a fine moment for me, a triumph, even. The reason I write so much about the moments before this is because this moment is, for me, the apotheosis, the culmination: it’s her acceptance of me, her willingness to allow me in, literally.
Everything else is purely sensual for me. That’s not to diminish its importance, exactly. As I’ve written, that sensual pleasure is in fact a sine qua non for me. But it’s not as interesting to me as the lead-up, as the time prior to her final, irrevocable consent.
Which she grants. Which I devour.
I taste her. I drink her in. I finger her, her pussy, her ass. I fuck her. I fuck her face, her pussy. She sucks my cock again. I cum twice. She cums more times than either of us can count.
And I’m left with delicious sensations and feelings: I’m tired. No, spent. It’s after 3 am by the time I’m home. I’m sated, briefly. I’m unseemly proud: I’ve fucked a young hottie. I’m pleased: I seem to have found a companion who’s well calibrated to serve my most lascivious purposes, whom I can dominate and use in a way that’s very rewarding for me, and for her.
And, it turns out, I’m still hard….