It started badly.
Annica offered her cheek, standoffish-ly.
Her body language was closed, distant.
She said I was defensive.
But her pussy was wet, in spite of herself. (She’s a self-proclaimed slut. I was the first of two guys she was meeting that night, and the other, a friend, was a sure thing.) And my cock was hard.
She was unconvinced about sucking my hard cock. She was unconvinced about me.
She’s smart, interesting, young. Crazy sexy, at least in photos. In person, the distance between us trumped her curves. Or almost did. The truth is, I needed that. Needed it.
“Give me your phone. Let me take pictures of your pretty body,” I proposed. She accepted.
Five minutes later, we were in private.
Her body was pretty, curvy, flawless. I lifted her too-formal white dress to reveal her round ass. I had her lift her dress, show me her B- (or C-?) cup breasts, perky. Her nipples were hard, nearly half an inch when erect. I snapped picture after picture with her phone, but I wanted more. Here are just a few of the very hot images I managed to snap:
“Kneel for me,” I said, and she did, snaking her hands under my thighs. “I didn’t ask you to put your hands under my thighs,” I said. “Remove them please.”
She did as I asked, nude now. I had her stand again, turn around, spread her legs, bend over the bed. A thread of liquid stretched from her pussy to her left thigh. I grabbed the phone again, tried to capture the glistening thread.
“Kneel again, please.”
I asked her to touch my cock through my pants. It was hard. “Tell me you don’t want to suck my cock,” I said. She said it. Convincingly. I pinched a nipple. “Tell me your nipple’s not hard,” I said. She smiled, deviously. “My nipple’s not hard,” she said. Even more convincingly.
I was pleased. I knew she would have my cock in her mouth soon enough. I stopped taking pictures. (In retrospect, a mistake.)
I threw her – gently, not roughly – on the bed, and parted her thighs. I approached her cunt, brushing her lips with my lips, blowing softly, maybe flicking my tongue once or twice.
Earlier, she had expressed concern that I might not (be able to) give her what she wanted. “How can you?” she had asked me.
“Well, you could tell me what you want,” I offered. “Or, I could intuit it.”
As I made contact with her clit I knew instantly that hers was a delicate one. She had told me that pain is a central feature of the sex she has with someone she calls “her Dom.” We had agreed pain wouldn’t be on our menu. Still, I licked just a little too hard. “Ouch!” she said, and I knew I had underestimated just how sensitive she was. It seemed that the lighter the touch of my tongue on her clit, the more she writhed, the louder she moaned. As I pressed on her pubis, as I thrust one, then two, then three, then four fingers deep, deep into her cunt, I began to have a sense of just what might, eventually, make her come for me. She tasted delicious, and I couldn’t get enough of her cunt. If we had had five hours, I happily would have spent four of them devouring her.
She squirted on my hand, but didn’t come.
Unfortunately, our time was limited.
(Dates shouldn’t happen with time constraints.)
With just a few minutes left on our clock, I undressed and had her suck my cock. Her mouth was warm, wet, soft. She was hungry. If we had had five hours, I happily would have spent four of them with my cock in her expert mouth.
I suppose what I’m saying is, I wish we’d had ten hours. Or maybe eight. That math is complicated.
She didn’t want me to come in her mouth. “I don’t know you,” she said. “A girl’s gotta have some limits.”
A few moments later, I exploded on her chest. We dressed, made some small talk, and said good-bye.
Time will tell if I get to put my newfound insight into the workings of her pussy to greater use. I sure hope I do. There’s lots more I’d like to do with her. More than anything, I want to see lots more of her body, to take lots more pictures of it, to feel her mouth on my cock more, to taste her cunt, to collect one, two, more orgasms from her. And to fuck her.
Yes, I think I’d like to fuck her.
Note: her comment on a draft of this was that it was “dispassionate.” As I’ve written a few times, this is, alas, how I tend to write about sex. I’m very good, I think, at communicating the excitement I feel about anticipation, about the lead-up. Less so, about the sensations I experience during sex. Bottom line: Annica has a gorgeous face, a fucking sexy body, she’s smart, and compliant (when she’s willing to be). There’s little I like more than that particular combination.
I didn’t see this as dispassionate. It is how you write, how you’ve always written, and doesn’t relay any negative or even indifferent tones – it’s positive even when questioning.
It makes me curious how someone would write about me, however. I may never know that answer – after all, my husband doesn’t write and the odds of me being intimate with someone who does are pretty slim.