So I thought she was a sure thing, but I wasn’t certain. When she turned up, she kept her distance, sitting quite far from me in a booth in which closeness would have been natural, easy. Our conversation, at least initially, wasn’t particularly sexual.
As she sipped her old-fashioned, and I, my Balvenie 14 (though the place bills itself a sort of whiskey parlor, with hundreds of options visible on shelves all over, they lacked the Oban I was craving), I instructed her: uncross your legs please.
She hesitated. Complied. “I feel more comfortable with my legs crossed,” she said.
“Is the discomfort you feel with them uncrossed bad?” I asked, “Or is it good?”
“It’s good,” she admitted.
“Good,” I said. “Now open them a little for me.”
When she had walked in, I had been surprised. She looked somehow different than I had imagined based on a couple of Zoom stretching sessions.* More… innocent? Almost… pure? I had mentioned her voice suggested an innocence belied by her words. Well in person, so did her flesh, her clothes, her carriage.
Her skin was paler, clearer than Zoom allowed me to imagine. She was curvier than she had appeared – both more slender and meatier, if that’s possible. I haven’t had the privilege of meeting very many people with whom I’ve stretched on Zoom in person – two, at this point – Charlotte and Adrienne. But both of them serve as object lessons in how incompletely Zoom communicates, how two-dimensional it renders people, how much is lost between the shitty cameras on our laptops, the shitty transmission by Zoom, the shitty lighting of our homes and offices, and our shitty screens. I imagined I was going to meet a plain-but-pretty- in-an-unobtrusive-not-particularly-striking way, woman. I didn’t imagine a hottie. A truly beautiful, sexy, demure, bundle of hotness. She had told me she knew she is attractive, that my compliments didn’t exactly come as news to her. And I had complimented her, genuinely, honestly, on the basis of what I saw on Zoom.
But in person? Damn. She turned heads, and stiffened more than just my cock just by her appearance. Her eyes – hazel, bright, deep – combine with her mouth – thin, full lips, and bright white teeth – to form a near-constant near-smile. It’s almost, but not quite, like a question mark expressed on her face. Her dress – one I had chosen – hugged and flattered her dangerous curves.
So we sat. We talked. Last call came quickly (10 pm – half an hour after she had arrived). She wasn’t ready to have our next stop be a hotel. I was. So instead we went to a historic (it’s over 100 years old, and I drank there more nights than not between 1989 and 1997), beautiful bar, closer to each of our homes.
The trip to the bar took about twenty minutes by cab. She sat on her side, I sat on mine. I wore a mask, and my seat belt, as did the driver. She wore neither.
“Play with yourself a little,” I texted her.
She had a visible reaction. It was hard to read. Excited? Scared? Repulsed? She was excited. I could feel it. She confirmed it.
“I have shorts on,” she responded.
“So what? 1. Your clit, I imagine, is sensitive to pressure through your shorts. 2. Who says you can’t dip your finger into them?”
Slowly, tentatively, reluctantly, she started to touch herself. ” Good girl,” I growled. I placed her hand on my hard cock. She rested it there placidly. I pressed it against my cock, taking sensation she wasn’t yet eager to give. Though she didn’t resist. As we crossed an iconic bridge, her breaths started to deepen, her tentativity dissipated, and her hand’s pace accelerated. And her grip on my cock tightened.
We had about six minutes in the car left. “You can do it,” I said. “Come for me.”
Moments later, her head lolled back, her eyes rose to the roof of the car, and her mouth opened, wide, involuntarily. It was taking a lot out of her not to moan, not to scream. But she didn’t make a sound.
She came hard, though, and we arrived at the bar. Moments after the car sped off, she realized she had left her phone in the car.
* I’m not sure why she’s on Seeking, or what, exactly, she is seeking (she has a good job), but she and I had been clear that whatever did or didn’t happen sexually had nothing to do with our stretching together. Or with money. And it doesn’t. And won’t.