We sat in a swanky bar. Isabel looked good enough to eat in her tight black dress and black tights. She looked a little scared as I stared into her eyes and described what I would, shortly, do to her. “I won’t be this shy forever,” she promised me.
“I’m worried they can hear!” she protested after my third consecutive sentence featuring the word “cock,” gesturing with her eyes to a couple ten feet away talking in normal conversational tones. Whom I couldn’t hear at all.
“You’re worried they might hear me whisper that I’m going to slide my cock slowly into your cunt?” I said into her ear, smiling.
Her cheeks were flushed. She pressed a leg against mine, grabbed my thigh with her hand. More like she was grabbing a life preserver than anything else.
I sent her to the bathroom so I could watch her ass. Her ass is remarkable, perfect. She is, as I wrote previously, almost fragile. She’s not small exactly, though she is lean. At some point in the evening, as we stood, kissing, I was surprised by how tall she was. At this moment, as she walked away from me, as I watched the curves of her body straining her small dress, my cock stiffened. It wasn’t yet 10. My cock would be rock hard till well after 3. And it wasn’t an unwanted Viagra reaction.
Before we went upstairs, she wanted another drink. I indulged her. We sat at our second bar of the evening. “Tell me one thing you want to happen tonight?” I asked her. In e-mail, she’s confident, comfortable. She has no trouble sending an email that says, “I need to suck your cock.” But in person? That feels somehow impossible.
“I’m much more comfortable with pictures than with words,” she said.
“Would you like to DRAW me what you hope will happen?”
I took out a pen. I handed her the receipt for our drinks. (Jameson’s, neat, for her. Johnnie Walker Black over a giant ice cube for me.) She began scribbling for me.
Three drawings later, I sent Isabel upstairs. “I want to find you lying on the bed, touching your pussy for me, when I come upstairs. And I want the clothes you brought laid out so I can see them.”
“Shhhhhh!” she said. “They can hear.”
They definitely couldn’t.
She left. I stayed at the bar, for a few more minutes. I downed my drink and went upstairs.
Over the next five hours, I tossed Isabel around, made her blush more, spent the better part of two hours, I would guess, my head between her thighs, attacking her clit in the kindest way possible, fingers in her pussy, her ass, her mouth.
She never said her “safe word,” but she did beg for my cock. Repeatedly. (And she received it, in abundance.)
Isabel’s orgasms are not always discernible. Often, she dissolves into a fit of giggling. But I can’t tell. I told her this at one point.
“Do you want me to tell you when I’m coming?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. Sometimes it can be fun not to know. I wasn’t in any doubt that she was having fun.
I used her throat and her hips to fuck her, hard, from beneath. I held her ankles high in the air as I pumped into her, missionary. I fed her my cock, as she knelt in front of me. I allowed her to minister to my cock with her tongue as I lay back on the bed. I licked her pussy more, and more, and more.
She was sweet, mild, drenched. Her thighs squeezed my head. Her wrists were held together over her head. I had asked her to hold a small towel in both hands, to mimic the effect of handcuffs, but voluntarily.
Her ass pressed onto my thumb. Her cunt, onto my fingers, her clit, onto my tongue.
Finally, finally, I knew we had to bring things to a close. Not because I wanted to, but because we both had to. This was after half an hour or so of small talk, a sort of intermission.
“Put your mouth back on my cock,” I said. I came. In her mouth, a little. In her hair, more. My orgasm was hard, long, violent. A few more little kisses.
We dressed. And were gone.