Feb 282017
 

Facts about Heather:

  1. Early on – before I’d heard her first orgasm – she hinted that she was a Trump supporter.
  2. She owns (or at least, until recently, owned) a bunch of guns.
  3. She’s got a great rack.
  4. She’s hot as fuck.
  5. She’s open-minded, interested, and interesting.
  6. She’s incredibly busy, working two jobs, and volunteering, and generally devoting her life to just about everything other than sucking my cock.
  7. She lives far away – more than two hours, by train.

We began a flirtation a couple of months ago. Mostly, it was via e-mail, but a bit via Snapchat as well (about which more later, but I’m not as opposed as I once was).

Over a period of weeks, we got to know one another. We talked about politics – about her reasons for supporting Trump, about our respective views on questions like the second amendment, discrimination, feminism, homosexuality, etc. After she sent me her first orgasm, I asked her if she wanted to see it, to hear it, on my blog. “Yes,” she said.

“Ok,” I told her. “But not until after you’ve sucked my cock.”

As she has, now, sucked my cock, you may hear her first orgasm for me. Here.

After that one, I heard every orgasm, every edging. I saw photos of her pretty face, her thighs, her cunt, nearly every day. She came when I asked her to. She edged when I asked her to. And she didn’t come when I asked her not to. She sent me enough orgasms, and near orgasms, that I could make an entire library of them. (I think I might.)

And then, we made a plan.

The day approached. She would travel to me. We would meet in a bar. She was anxious – understandably. I imagined she would worry about me, about whether she would feel physical attraction to me (I had seen her, after all; she had barely seen me), about whether she would be safe. But those weren’t her concerns: she worried, instead, about whether she would be able to please me. About whether her mouth would feel good to my cock. About her technique.

Fast forward: though there was a hiccup day of – she briefly imagined she might not go through with traveling all that distance just to suck a stranger’s cock – she ultimately rose to the occasion, and, at the appointed time, we were sitting next to one another in a dark bar. She looked even prettier than her pictures had led me to imagine. Pretty, glistening eyes. A wide, open, curious smile. An innocence I can’t quite describe.

Heather doesn’t wear skirts. Or dresses. Strictly jeans for her. And so jeans it was. I didn’t tell her what to wear. Or how to sit. We drank together for two or three dreinks. Talking about her guns. About what makes her feel safe, about what doesn’t. And then, it was time to fish or cut bait.

“May I reserve a room for us?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “But I still want one more drink.”

We drank another one. I booked us a room. We left the bar. She smoked a cigarette. We kissed on the street, me, inhaling the smoke she’d so generously filtered for me with her lungs.

And then, a short car ride later, we were at the hotel. Her thighs are creamy white. I had to see them in person (having seen them photographically in abundance). I pulled off her jeans, spread her legs wide, and dove into her cunt. Her sweet, tasty, drenched cunt.

Heather had told me both that she rarely comes with men, and that she doesn’t particularly enjoy receiving oral sex. I didn’t care. Her thighs were begging for my ears, her clit, for my tongue, and I spent the next hour or so lapping her up, sliding my fingers deep into her as I licked, sucked, flicked, pressed her clit, her cunt, her asshole. She couldn’t have tasted better, and while she didn’t come, it felt over and over as if she were this close….

Finally, my cock – my patient, generous cock – ran out of patience, and it was time for Heather to get what she had come for. I had her kneel for me. I fed her my cock. I lay back on the bed. I had her kneel between my legs on the bed. I guided her with my hands, with my words. Low, guttural words, moans. Mostly, though, just “FUCCKKK.” Her mouth was soft, moist, warm. Her lips pressed on my shaft. Her tongue swirled. My cock couldn’t possibly have been happier.

Regular readers of the blog know that I don’t excel at writing sex. Suffice it to say, there’s nothing I could write here that would do justice to the delicious sensations my cock experienced in her mouth, to the gratitude I felt when, at length, I filled the back of her throat with my cum, cum which she swallowed hungrily, eagerly.

The end of evenings like this is always a little inscrutable to me. We lay and talked some more, and when we finally parted ways, I wasn’t sure if she would let me use her again. But even before I got home, I got from her a delightful, delicate, text: “Do you think, maybe, we could do that again, sometime? Soon?”

“Yes,” I responded. “I think we could. I think we should.”

And we will. Soon.

(For her version of the evening, you may read here….)

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