Emily’s jealous

I’m not sure “jealous” is what she is, though it’s what she says she is.

I think it’s more like envy. She envies the women who can send me pictures and videos and audio. She can’t bring herself to do it. And, she envies the women with whom I have sexual encounters. Because she can’t bring herself to put herself in that category, either.

She lives far away and, as I’ve written before, Snapchat is her medium of choice when it comes to sending me photos of her (exceedingly pretty) body.

She knows that if she wants me to be able to jerk off to the incredibly hot images of her incredibly sexy body that she sends me, I need to be able to look at the images for more than five seconds, and, preferably, without my thumb holding down the screen on my phone.

She also knows that she needs to give me what I want.

Sometimes, she does that. But she doesn’t like giving me what I want. She likes to give me what she wants.

She’s finding herself being pushed just slightly out of her comfort zone, though, by her desire to read me write about her, by the envy she feels at the women about whom I do write, about whom I do fantasize. The other day, when I wrote about my fantasy, she was put out that she wasn’t included in the list of women I imagined joining me. I pointed out to her that, with the exception of Sofia, all the women I listed actually might join me, could join me. And Sofia, honestly, would if she could, if she weren’t 7,000 miles away.

But Emily? Though she lives far away, she doesn’t live that far away, and she surely could join if she wanted to. And she’s been clear that what she really wants is for me to fantasize about her, much more than to actually spend an hour or seven worshiping my cock. So. In the absence of that affirmative, actual desire to worship my cock? It’s hard for me to muster up all that much energy fantasizing about her. Especially when all of the images I have of her are evanescent.

To spur me along in my fantasizing, she sent me three photos. I’d love to share them with you, but I don’t have her permission. (Truthfully, I haven’t asked. Maybe she’ll give it and then I can send them.) The photos were all of her in her gym attire. She works out daily – maybe more than once a day. She’s always at the gym, it seems.

The first picture is of her kneeling, barefoot – a good girl – in purplish/pink satin-y shorts and a black jogbra. Her hands are clasped between her thighs, and the shorts – short shorts – are ridden just high enough up her butt to give a glimpse of the curve upward toward her ass of her thighs. Her flesh is pale, white. She’s in phenomenal shape. Her brown hair, straight, hangs down to the middle of her back.

The second picture has her facing the camera, leaning forward, her hands now on the ground. Her hair hangs over her shoulder, partially obscuring her right breast, somewhere between an A- and a B-cup, pert, taut, pretty. Her cleavage is visible, a shadow between her small breasts, and her head is stretched up. I can’t see her chin but her pretty neck is exposed. Her shorts have ridden up just a bit higher in this shot, but her ass is far from me, and though she’s facing the camera, she’s just tilted enough that I can see the delicious curve of her left thigh/butt cheek.

And in the third shot, she’s up on her knees again, leaning back, this time, her hands on her heels. Her knees are spread, her pussy is facing me, again in the pink/purple shorts. They’re not tight. They’re hiked up on her thighs, just high enough that under her right thigh, I can just see (I think) that spot where thigh ends and butt begins. Just.

As with all the pictures Emily sends me, these are unsatisfying.

Partly, this is because I’m insatiable. Anyone who’s ever sent me a photo knows that, if I like it, my response is, “Awesome! Delicious! More!” or some such. It’s rare that I’m sated.

But more than that it’s because I know that these three photos are all I’m getting. Emily doesn’t like sending me photos via e-mail. It’s back to Snapchat for me. Where this afternoon, she sent me a lovely video of her hotel room (she’s traveling) and a brief glimpse of her top half in a sort of baby-doll outfit? Maybe? I don’t know. I had three seconds to figure out what I was looking at.

If I had my druthers, I’d give Emily follow-on requests after these three shots: first, I want them all again, minus the shorts. Then, minus the jogbra. Then, I’d like the third one, but with a hand on her pussy, over her panties. Then, one with her hand under her panties, touching her clit. And finally, I’d want to see her ass. (She has a great, round, meaty, muscular ass, but she hates to show it to me.)

The other night, she asked me if I have any fantasies involving her, if I know what I’d do to her if I could. I know she wants to read my words, my fantasy, of her, spun out, here. But my brain doesn’t work that way. I told her this. What makes my brain spin a fantasy is possibility. If I don’t imagine something’s possible, I don’t fantasize about it.

I don’t think she’s going to crawl to see me – pictures of her on her hands and knees notwithstanding. I don’t think she’s going to kneel before me and ask for instruction. I don’t think I’m going to get to pose her body as I’d like to in person.

But if she wants to read more words about her, and I think she does, she’ll tease me a bit more….


  1. “What makes my brain spin a fantasy is possibility. If I don’t imagine something’s possible, I don’t fantasize about it.” So true! But it’s amazing to me how just a glimmer of possibility can activate fantasy for me.

    1. P, Sofia, Veronique: the blog
      Allie, Emily, Eva, Isabel, Luna, Penelope, the Rockette, Rose, Sadie, Tamora: Tinder
      The Historian, Maxie: OKCupid
      L: Life

      How will I meet you? 😉

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