Anticipation is a funny thing.
It’s delicious. It’s awful. It’s ecstatic, and torturous. It often exceeds the thing anticipated, even as it, often, ruins its object.
Sofia and I had a relationship that was almost entirely based on an anticipation that was never realized. Or that, at least, hasn’t yet been realized, nearly a decade after it began.
V and I very self-consciously surfed the anticipation wave before our dates, often sending dozens of GIFs back and forth to one another, in increasing volume, with increasing frequency, as our dates approached.
Thus far with Charlotte, I’m on my third, very different, experience of anticipation. Our first date wasn’t, actually, all that long after we met. The anticipation was sweet, imbued with curiosity. We had zoomed a couple of times, so we knew what each other looked like. But the bodily chemistry between us was unknown. It was close to a sure thing, but not the sure thing we now know it conclusively to be.
The second date, nearly a month later, was different. This time, I didn’t anticipate meeting her, or getting my first taste of her, my first touch. This time, I anticipated specific actions, specific feelings I already knew, and a few I didn’t. I had bought a wand, and some rope, and my fantasies overflowed with anticipation of the view I shared with you in this post, of the noise she would make as she exploded with orgasm after orgasm, of the sensations with which I now was – if not familiar, at least acquainted.
And now, as our third date approaches, the anticipation differs yet again.
I had hoped to ramp Charlotte up, to have her on edge for days, maybe even for weeks, before we saw one another. But we were interrupted. By distance. By other men. By menstruation. (Charlotte puts her pussy off limits to herself for several days a month as she bleeds.) By other men. Another menstruation. And, of course, by time.
I’ve had Charlotte on edge, but then I’ve delivered her the orgasms she needed to climb off it, several times since we last met. Partly, defensively: there’s little I hate more than revving a woman up for another man. And Charlotte’s been dating, fucking, intermittently.
And partly out of compassion: a girl can only go so long.
Charlotte is about to go a LONG time. She’s about to edge for me dozens of times. To beg me to come over and over. And over. And over.
I will be ruthless.
Charlotte hasn’t been a bad girl. On the contrary, she’s been unfailingly good to me. But I’ve written before: I use punishment most happily not on a bad girl, but on a good one. Not out of anger or discipline, but out of ardor, longing, and as a reward.
Well Charlotte surely has earned her reward. With hundreds, if not thousands, of photos. With dozens, scores of audio recordings. With compliance that approaches perfection.
The time for the reward is nigh. Not the ultimate reward. Not the orgasm(s) I will collect from her when I see her. But the penultimate reward. The aching. The longing. The need. The desperation.
It’s about to be a wild ride.