Isabel is shy.
Whenever we meet, she’s anxious. Anxious she’ll be seen by someone she knows. Anxious someone will overhear as I tell her that I can’t wait to feel her mouth on my cock. Anxious, to be honest, that someone will know what we’re up to.
On this particular evening, an unseasonably chilly evening, she wore the black cutoff shorts I’d requested. (I’d coincidentally run into her on the street just two days earlier, and I’d liked what I saw. “Wear those,” I’d said. Her ass – not small, but perfectly round and delightful – looks utterly spectacular in those cutoffs. And I wanted that.
So she walked in to the bar – a noisy yuppie place where I know the bartender. We didn’t sit immediately. All the stools were taken. I warned her that I know the bartender, that he knows about the blog. I playfully threatened to introduce her. Her self-consciousness was in full flower. She pulled her hair over her face. She was worried. Worried that he’d recognize her somehow, worried that she’d run into him some time in the future. She continued in her fear that we could be overheard, that anyone else in the place cared what we were up to, what we were about to get up to. And I continued, playfully, gently, to prick at that fear, saying the word “cock,” or “cunt”, looking at her lasciviously, appreciating, anticipating, what was to come.
After our second drink (Johnnie Walker Black for me, Jameson neat for her), we moved toward our next destination. In the cab, I told her not to look at me, to look out the window. As she did, I unbuttoned her shorts, and slid my hand down under her panties, against, into, her (very wet) pussy. I fingered her a bit as the cab moved slowly toward our destination. And as we approached, I slid my finger out, licked off her juices, and instructed her to button up. I settled with the cabbie, and we went into the hotel. I asked Isabel to wait for me, in the room, on her knees. Good girl that she is, a few minutes and a cookie later, I found her waiting as instructed.
I lifted her up and threw her on the bed. She played with herself while I tried to make the music thing happen. Not very successfully. I gave up, and dove between her legs, instead. A lovely consolation prize. I removed her shorts, and her panties, and lapped happily at her cunt. It had been a while – too long – since I’d tasted her sweet, musky pussy. I fingered her deep as I pressed my mouth against her clit. I grabbed at her full breasts, and soon, soon, she came on my face, and started writhing in giggles, as she does.
I rolled over onto my back, and invited her between my legs. “Is there something you want?” I asked.
She nodded up and down.
“What do you want?” I asked.
She pointed, coyly, at my cock.
“Say it,” I said.
She shook her head “no.”
“Yes,” I said.
We went back and forth like this. Though she had told me she wouldn’t be this shy forever on a previous date, her shyness, if anything, seems to be increasing, not decreasing, as our time together grows. She warned me that I was approaching her limit, that it was going to cease being hot for her if I continued to insist.
I continued to insist. “Tell me you want to suck my cock,” I said, “and you may, and this portion of the evening will be over.”
She said it. Quietly. So quietly I could barely hear. But she said it.
And so she did. Expertly. At great length.
There was sucking, fucking, more licking, more sucking, more fucking, more orgasms. And finally, finally, I came, gobs of come in her mouth, on her mouth, in her hair.
We lay around engaging in small talk. We cleaned ourselves up. And we were gone.
Oh god, I’d be like this. I want this.
You WILL be like this.