We thought we would just drink. Talk. No sex.
About 40 minutes in, though, Charlotte said, “I want something to happen.”
The talk had been a necessary recalibration, a reminder to both of us of how dominance and submission do and don’t work for us, but, most important, of how they provide us both with safety and structure.
I snaked my hand up under Charlotte’s pretty, short dress, black and white, and felt the wetness of her cunt through her black tights, her black panties. My hand pressed against her clit, vibrating, pulsing, and I brought her close before I turned her around and had her sit. I stood between her thick thighs and pushed them wider with my legs as I resumed attending to her pussy. (My cock was painfully hard.)
I kissed her hard, pushing her pretty head back, choking her pale, exposed neck, gently, more firmly. Her orgasm didn’t come as quickly or easily as usual. But. It did come. She did come.
I retreated to my chair. Lowered my (new, 31-inch waist) pants, my boxers, and Charlotte settled her pretty knees on a cushion as she took my cock into her soft, warm, generous mouth. “I need to feel your awesome tongue on the underside of my cock,” I said. And I did. I had promised I would come quickly (in three minutes), to allow us more time to talk – which was, after all, the point of this date. Three minutes was overly ambitious. It took six. But, strangely, the final minute or so was consumed with an unusual, rolling orgasm. I barely ejaculated, but my body quaked with orgasm as I moaned “Fuck!” over and over and over and over.
We cleaned up and resumed our conversation.