Meeting a specific craving

I wanted to feast on a pussy between two big thighs, and I did.

Adrienne is a big small girl. Or a small big girl. She’s less than 5 feet. Her thighs and ass are THICK. Not fat, but definitely thick. I’ve been pining for the sensations of big thighs quivering on my ears, and I took that from (gave that to) Adrienne.

We had interacted less than I usually do with women who suck my cock, whose pussies I devour, but the truth is my craving was intense. I know myself well enough to know from her photos: she had what I wanted.

We met for a midday drink. She had arrived at the bar just ahead of me. As she approached it, I was 50 feet behind her: I texted her: “I’m watching your ass.” She sent me back some eye emojis. And didn’t turn around.

We sat down together. We chatted. I told her a bit about me. She told me a bit about her (hint: she and Steve Martin have some things in common). She ordered a rose spritzer (“I’m a very basic white girl.”). I ordered (shocker) a scotch, with one ice cube. I knew what I wanted. I knew there was little she could say (other than “no thank you”) that would dissuade me. We drank. I hurried her. The clock was ticking. She had to meet a friend not too long from now. We didn’t have that much time.

“Drink faster,” I told her. I needed my head between her thighs.

Though she confessed that she thinks herself submissive, that she doesn’t like making decisions, likes being told what to do, she didn’t read as submissive. Rather, she read as slightly anxious. Not about the situation. Just in general. High energy. Talking a mile a minute. In a way I understood to be utterly characteristic of her, and not a response to the situation.

She doesn’t like silence. And though she does want to be told what to do, more than that she wants to do what she wants. A safe word was entirely unnecessary. She would say “no” or “stop,” and there was no part of her that appeared to be hungry for me to power past those protests. There was no part of me that was hungry for that, either. The only way I can muster up the sexual aggression to power past protests is if doing so is clearly, undeniably, a source of cunt-dripping wetness for my partner.

Adrienne gave me what I came for in spades. I wanted to devour a pretty pussy, and she let me.

I sent her to the room ahead of me. “Text me when you’re standing, arms and legs spread, against the wall.”

“Nude?” she asked.

“No,” I clarified. “In that sexy black dress.” She wore a black polyester (? – it wasn’t cotton, and it wasn’t silk) dress, with a deeply plunging neckline that made her B cup breasts a bit visible, as it dipped nearly to her navel.

This makes them look bigger than they are. They’re excellent. But they’re not big.

Adrienne has clear, beautiful skin, and piercing eyes. Her hair – lustrous, blonde (except at the roots, where it fades to black) – hangs down below her waist.

A few minutes later, she texted: “I’m ready.” And attached a smiley face emoji.

So was I.

I will say: we had no real connection. This was not a match made in heaven. She seemed perfectly nice, and I imagine I seemed perfectly nice to her, but each of us was there for one thing, and connection wasn’t really part of it, it seemed. I’m not, honestly, sure what her motivation was: she didn’t manifest eagerness, enthusiasm, so much as willingness, gameness]

I reached the room, and found her as instructed. I moved her a few feet to the right, and commenced spanking her prodigious, phenomenal ass. (She’s a PAWG.) “You didn’t give me all I asked for the last few days.”

“No, I didn’t,” she said. My spanks didn’t seem to turn her on. They seemed to hurt, and not in a hot way. “Can you move your hand a little further down?” she pleaded. “That hurts.”

My own relationship to spanking is a bit… complicated. On its own? It does nothing for me. But when there’s an electrical connection between a woman’s ass and her cunt, when each smack elicits a gush of pussy juice, a yelp of painful pleasure (see: V)? In those circumstances, I can’t get enough of spanking.

These circumstances weren’t those circumstances. I turned her around, and kissed her, briefly. I had pinched her nipple a bit as I spanked her – she had cautioned me to be careful: “They’re honestly pretty sensitive and I’m not a super big fan of playing with them a ton.” Her breasts are fragile. Her ass is fragile.

The kissing was nice, but I was hungry. I turned her around, asked her to lie on the bed for me. (I wasn’t feeling the “toss her around” vibe at all.) “Face up or face down?” she asked.

“Face up,” I said.

She did as directed. I asked if she would mind if I blindfolded her. (We had established some ground rules previously; this was well within them.) She said “yes.” I said, “Yes, you mind? Or yes, blindfold you?” She clarified that she had meant to assent.

I worked to prevent the pillowcase I fashioned into a blindfold from tugging too hard at her hair. Pillowcases often pull at hair, and she had more than enough to make it a challenge.

“Now,” I asked. “May I bind your wrists?” She nodded.

I used my yoga strap and the top of the bed to cinch her wrists loosely together above her head. I kissed her, one more time, and kissed my way down between her legs. I slid her pink thong off. “Do you like my pink?” she asked.

“Um, yes,” I said. “I like your pink.”

Meaty thighs!

Was she making a pun? I wasn’t sure. But I was.

I dove into her cunt. Her vulva was freshly shaved. This is never my preference, but, as I’ve written elsewhere, I don’t look a gift pussy in the mouth. Or rather, I do. I don’t stop looking a gift pussy in the mouth. I lapped, licked, pressed. She moaned. I inserted first one finger, then two. This seemed to elicit a little more of a reaction to her. I pressed a third into her. “Yessssss,” she let out. I felt her vaginal muscles squeeze my fingers, pulsing, throbbing.

On a different day, I might have worked my way up to a fist in her. I think, honestly, this is what she really wanted. But she took – with seeming pleasure – my fingers and my tongue and my other hand pressing down on her pubis. Her first orgasm came quickly, and, like a boy, she was sensitive, and needed a break.

“That’s fine,” I said, “You can suck my cock, please.”

Actually, I dragged it out a bit. Had her remove my clothes first. Had her tease my cock a bit. I’m not, generally, one for a race to the finish.

“Do you like sucking cock?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “very much.”

“What about it?”


I asked about the power, and it was here that she confessed her “submission” – “I don’t generally like feeling powerful, but I like that moment of power.”

She licked my cock tentatively. She sucked it gently. She let it “pop” out of her mouth, seeming to be trying to heighten the suction as she pulled away. “Keep my cock in your mouth,” I said. I wasn’t that hard, and the intermittency wasn’t doing it for me. I wanted her to keep my cock in her mouth until it was rock hard. I told her this.

My instruction, I thought, was clear. But her behavior didn’t really change. Just a few moments later, she lay her head next to my hip. “I’m taking a break,” she said.

“Are you ready for me to go back to your pussy?” I asked.

“I think so,” she said.

This time, I added a thumb in her asshole to the mix. Again, she came pretty quickly – five minutes? ten? She liked my thumb in her ass, until she didn’t. “Would you take that other finger out?” she asked, shortly before she came.

Her orgasms don’t gush, and they’re not a whole lot louder than her general moans are, but there is a distinctive change in taste in the moments after her orgasm: she gets much saltier. I imagine that’s a sort of mini-gush – enough to reach my taste buds; not enough to fly out. (I didn’t ask. Maybe she does gush sometimes.)

We lay and made small talk. I asked her to suck my cock some more. She said, “I’m resting.” She promised she’d go back to it, but she made clear she would do so on her timetable.

“You’re lucky my hand’s not on your head, pushing you down,” I said.

“Ohhhh, I really wouldn’t like that,” she said. “I hate that.”

A while later, she made a few more desultory laps at my cock, kissing the head, kissing the shaft.

If I knew her better, if my hopes were higher for this part of our together-ness, I would have communicated more. “Do I smell?” “Is there something wrong?” Instead, I promised not to come in her mouth (“Good! That’s a hard limit for me!”), and told her to suck my cock as if she wanted me to come in her mouth. She continued as she had been doing. My cock wasn’t getting harder.

The truth is, I wanted more of her pussy.

I told her to lie back, and took a third orgasm from her, this one with my finger in her ass (I think). She expressed a generous concern that I not feel deprived for not having come. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I kinda like walking around with this pent-up feeling.” And I do.

We washed up as we made some small talk, and left the room, she to her friend, me to the gym.

My instinct is we probably won’t see one another again. But who knows: if she tells me, in response to this, “I want a second chance. Let me at your cock, and nothing else, for an hour, or two, or three?” Well, to that, I would say yes.

She won’t say that though. I don’t think that’s what she wants. And if it’s not what she wants, I got what I came for, and I’m a happy guy. (If it is what she wants, I’ll keep you posted.)

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