An hour or so before our date, Hope sent me a tantalizing photo: her spectacular breasts in a floral patterned silk tank blouse, her magnificent ass in a black cotton skirt, short.
“Not a choice, sadly. But a preview,” she texted.
“Your top doesn’t button,” I replied.
I had asked Hope to give me some choices among short skirts, buttoning tops, and lingerie.
“You look gorgeous,” I continued. “But your top doesn’t button.”
You may remember that Hope had sought me out, that she had chased me, telling me that – having read my blog assiduously, she was certain we would be good for each other. We made a go of it, but ultimately, Hope concluded she had been mistaken. We weren’t sufficiently good for each other to keep it going in the way each of us initially had envisioned. “I want a man to tell me what to do,” she said the other day, and then added the crucial, “but I want him to want me to do precisely what I want to do.” See: topping from the bottom. And also: perversion. And also: dominance.
I can empathize with Hope’s situation here, as I similarly crave perfect harmony between my wishes and what I get. But where Hope has at times quested for that perfect dominant partner, I have a different strategy, one that works for me: instead of seeking someone(s) who want(s) exactly what I want, coincidentally, I seek those who want me to have exactly what I want. A slight, but important – and much more achieve-able – difference. And of course, I want to be in charge, where Hope wants to be told what to do – and to be praised endlessly.
“I know,” she wrote. “Apologies. Promise I’m not being bratty.”
In the moment I missed the grammatical miss of her formulation: she didn’t apologize – no subject, no verb accompanied her “apologies.” She just offered the word. As a sort of apology balloon floating by.
Her next sentence, too, lacked a subject. “Promise I’m not being bratty.”
I didn’t pick nits. I didn’t, honestly, notice them in the moment. I read the text as she surely meant it to be read, as “I apologize. I promise I wasn’t being bratty.”
“You aren’t?” I wrote. And I appended my overused old school winking smiley face ;-).
“The skirt and the buttons were mutually exclusive. I went with skirt…. Haha well accidentally bratty.”
When Hope arrived, I had her turn around for me, so I could drink her in. I was thirsty.
I gestured to a chair. Asked her to open her legs for me. Asked her to open them wider, so I could see, properly, the powerful thighs she had used to squeeze my head, vise-like.