“Do you have any requests?” I asked her. “What do you want me to wear?” she replied. And, “May I request not too late a night.”
“Tights and a dress will work well for me. The rest is up to you,” I told her.
We met in a hotel bar – one in which we’d met previously. It works well for her. It’s filled with tourists. The only locals there are on missions similar to ours. It’s loud. It’s entertaining. As we discussed where I might come, given her preference that I not come in her mouth, three loud blondes stood behind us, arms in the air, swaying. We talked for two long drinks. About our lives. About Paris, and Beirut, and the devastating, heart-breaking Western (and American political) responses.
Well, she was looking hot. A black dress, long, over black tights, and her body was looking spectacular. I sent her upstairs, telling her to text me when she was on the bed, her fingers touching her clit.
A few minutes later, I grabbed the hair dryer from the bathroom, tied the cord around her wrists, and blindfolded her with a pillow case. “Don’t come without my permission,” I instructed her, and commenced the tease.
I touched her gently, and firmly, around her cunt, over her tights, for five minutes or more. Her hips were bucking up toward my hand (which was withdrawing). I teased my fingertips over the edge of the top of her tights. And then, I pulled them off. More teasing, around her black panties. (Isabel always has fancy lingerie. It’s kinda her thing.) Finally, I pulled the panties down and dove into her sweet, wet, musky pussy.
My tongue worked her clit while I pushed two fingers deep up inside her. She giggled, and bucked, and moaned, and sighed. She’s not fast to come, and I was in no hurry. Well, I was in a hurry. But I didn’t rush.
She asked permission. I denied it. She asked again. I think I denied it a second time. The third time, I assented, and in no time, she was writhing and giggling. Her orgasms aren’t just hot – they’re cute.
It was my turn, and boy, was I ready. I invited Isabel to tie me up, or to blindfold me, or both. I was hungry for some attention. She ineffectually tied my wrists with two pillowcases. I lay back, and closed my eyes, as she lowered her mouth on my cock which had been hard, it felt like, for months.
I was silent. I’m not, generally, a big talker during sex. I don’t tend to talk dirty, I don’t tend to say much other than “Fuck,” which was especially true on this evening: “Fuck,” I said, over and over, noting that my vocabulary seemed to shrink dramatically when my cock was in her mouth.
I had told Isabel (by text – she didn’t want me to say it aloud in the bar) that I planned to come in her pussy. Well, in a condom in her pussy. “Get a condom out of my bag?” I said, and directed her to the stash of condoms. She rolled one onto me, and lowered herself onto me. I grabbed her by the throat with my right hand, on her hip with my left, and I started guiding her back and forth on me. First, slowly, but then, more quickly, harder. The room was (to her) cold (“That’s what you get for dating skinny girls,” she said), but warm to me. I bucked, thrusted, moaned. It was late. I didn’t have the energy to be the athletic fucker so many women crave. I wanted her on top, and I wanted to come in that position, and I did.
It was smoking hot.
We debriefed. We talked about the fact that it’s been a year, now, since we met. That time flies, and goes slowly, all at the same time. We talked about Tinder, and Happ’n, and Hinge. We talked about other things, too. And we headed home.
It wasn’t a limits-pushing kind of evening, but it was a shit-ton of fun. Thank you, Isabel.