“What do you like so much about my tits,” Tamora asked me.
“I like your whole body!” I said. But I do really like her tits. “They’re so… soft….” I said. It’s true of her whole body. She’s not fat. She’s not “big.” She’s my height, maybe an inch or two taller on her heels, and she’s not petite. Everywhere I touch on her body – which, I should say, doesn’t have an ounce of un-toned fat on it – is soft, yielding, pliable. It’s fucking awesome.
She’s not, really, submissive. And I’ve somehow inspired her with a certain terror that leads her to shake in anticipation of our dates. I confess – her anxiety before meeting me is just a little hot. Or maybe more so.
She finds my tendency to give directions, to make requests, stressful, so I don’t give her directions, don’t make requests. I didn’t tell her what to wear. Didn’t ask her to do anything for me in the bar in which we met. As we sat, nursing our drinks, talking about our (real) lives, we were struck (well, I was – she agreed) by the proliferation of hot women. There were eight in a row at the bar. Seriously.
Suitably lubricated, we walked a few blocks. We got in a car. We went to our destination. I choked her. I felt how wet her cunt was through her panties. (Though I hadn’t requested what she wore, she’d dressed pretty much as I would have requested – a soft, cotton minidress.) It was really wet.
I pressed her down to her knees, and teased her with my cock. “I want your cock,” she said. “May I have your cock?”
“Soon,” I said. I trailed my cock across her cheek, under her chin, over her lips. She licked at it eagerly, hungrily. I fed her my cock, as she kneeled, and I fucked her face, pulling her mouth onto me, holding my cock deep in her mouth, pulling her off, pushing her back down.
I stood her up, had her undress for me, and threw her on the bed. She spread her legs for me, and I went to work. (Well, not work. Or rather, if that were my job, I’d be a fucking lucky guy.) I collected orgasm after orgasm from her. She shuddered, telling me as her thighs squeezed my head, “This is what I masturbate to.” She came again. And again. And again.
She spent more time devouring my cock, we fucked, and then, we went out for a drink. In bar #2 of the evening, we discussed bartending (our bartender had a hard time with her simple order), politics (Bernie, the Donald, Hillary, Jeb!, the system as a whole). And, we talked about getting my cock back in her mouth.
Two or three drinks later, we accomplished that goal. We spent another hour sucking, licking, fucking. She greedily swallowed all the cum I fed her. Well, all the cum that didn’t somehow end up in her hair.
We debriefed. We both want more. She wants to lick a woman’s clit in my presence. “Maybe you can teach me some tricks!” she said.
We said goodbye on an empty, big, usually busy street, and went home to sweet, sweet dreams.