Nastya is nasty

Nastya’s Tinder profile is misleading. The pictures are demure. She appears shy, receding almost. There had been some words under her profile when we matched; the words are gone, now. She is young. Much younger than the women with whom I typically click well. By a decade. Or two.

Our texting had been promising, but somehow… off. The rhythm of back-and-forth never quite got established. Conversations would end mid-stream. I’d ask for something and she’d give it to me. I’d ask for something else and she wouldn’t.

There was an exchange in which we made a plan. It almost surprised me – both that I proposed that we meet, and that she said yes. I told Lexy, the day before the date, that there was a 50-50 chance it would go well. I apologized to Isabel for not having made her my first call on this particular evening.

And then, there were little hints that the evening might, in fact, go well. Nastya had, it seemed, been reading my blog, diligently. She seemed to know, in our texts, quite a bit about things I like. Details about my cock. About my thinking about things sexual.

The day before, as I’m wont to do, I exercised a little pre-date sartorial control. I selected her dress – a black and white number that she showed me hanging in her closet. I selected her shoes – black open-toed sandals. Her panties – I called them “white/ivory.” She called them “nude.” I pointed out (not in our text exchange, but as we were dressing again, at the end of the night) that they might be nude for her, but that there were plenty of women for whom they looked nothing like nude. Her bra – well, actually, I didn’t “select” it, as she only owned one strapless bra, such as the dress required.

And then, the day of…. Sometimes, the day of a date is chock-full of anticipation. With V, in particular, I often would spend hours anticipating what the date would hold, and sending her filthy pictures. Other times, the day features less of that. This may be a function of my actual day, what it holds, or of something else. Usually, it’s just the day. On this particular day, I spent the day thinking of many other things. The date? Not so much.

In the afternoon, Nastya showed me her body in the dress. The dress was much fancier than I had anticipated, and her body, much curvier. In an entirely good way.

The hour approached, and she messaged, “I find the panties to be uncomfortable. May I please wear a black thong instead?” Was she showing an early bratty streak? Why resist my selection?

We established that she actually was wearing the black thong, but that she also had the white/ivory panties in her bag. “I’d like to see them on you before I say yes. From the front and behind.” I wasn’t being difficult. I was being honest. I wanted – in general, I like – to know what pleasures await. Surprises are fun, but so is control, and specific anticipation.

“I knew I shouldn’t have brought this up,” she wrote.

I replied, “I’m glad you did! Feel free to wear what I chose. Or to give me this other choice. It’s totally up to you.” And she didn’t reply. A few hours later – about three hours before our scheduled meeting – I wrote, “Very soon, I’ll see you. Wearing, it seems, the uncomfortable panties I selected. I’m excited.”

I didn’t hear again until she told me she was twelve minutes away from the bar. I was relieved. I confess: I’m not above fearing abandonment when a text goes unanswered.

She wasn’t, it turns out, twelve minutes away. She was more like fourteen minutes away. But in any event, she arrived. She is short – maybe 5’4″ – and the dress was, as I suspected, a bit more formal than I’d intended. She sat next to me at the bar and picked up the old-fashioned I had waiting for her. Her face was pretty. Her hair, brown, shiny, mid-length. She smelled clean. Lovely. Though I’d heard her voice, I hadn’t really noticed the accent of which she’d told me she was self-conscious.

As we made our way through the preliminaries – “Which panties are you wearing?” “The ones you chose, of course.” “Good girl.” – I heard the accent a little more clearly. It makes itself known more in the cadence of her speech than in her pronunciation, but, as the evening progressed, it became almost comic that I never understood anything she said the first time she said it – whether because of her volume, or the cadence, or a combination.

We had a few drinks. I gave her permission to remove the uncomfortable panties, to replace them with the thong she’d have preferred to wear. “Of course,” she said.

She had an interesting relationship to me, to my blog. As we chatted, as I experimented with gently touching her, seeing how she responded (for the most part, delightfully, though there was one flinch when I placed a hand behind her neck, under her hair), I learned some things. She seemed to have decided that, on this particular evening, N would get what N wanted. That she would give N what he wanted. And, that, somehow, she had no choice. She had checked her agency at the door, had consented to whatever it was that I wanted.

Now this is hot.

I’ll confess – it felt a little odd that she seemed to have made this decision before meeting, that she didn’t even seem to want to validate her decision in our conversation, either with reference to my looks, or to what it was like to be with me. But hey – her choice.

So we finished our drinks. The bartender gave us a cigarette, at my request. (I’m not smoking, but Nastya had a craving.) We walked the five blocks toward a room I’d booked, but first, we bought a bottle of wine. Nastya wanted to drink a little more. A dry, sweet, Riesling. Whatever the fuck that means. I don’t know shit about wine. I always thought dry and sweet were opposites. We bought a pack of cigarettes. Nastya’s craving had been unsatisfied by the bartender’s single Marlboro Light. And we walked a few blocks.

We arrived just as she was lighting her third cigarette since we’d left the bar. I liked this – I kissed her, hard, holding her against a wall by her throat, and our kiss was the closest thing I’ve had to a cigarette in more than three months. Our mouths fit well together. Her tongue and my tongue had complementary goals. All was good.

I left her against that wall, smoking the cigarette, as I checked in the hotel. I told her I’d text her the room number. Things went slightly awry when I asked if I’d find a corkscrew in the room. “No,” said the customer service rep. “But just ask at the bar.” I had texted Nastya to come meet me at the check-in area. I was just waiting for the bartender’s attention when I realized that the wine didn’t require a corkscrew.

I sent Nastya to the room by herself. “I want you to face the wall, arms and legs spread, and wait,” I said.

Evidently, I was too impatient. When I got to the room, Nastya was peeing, un-self-consciously, with the door to the bathroom open. A little early intimacy of another sort?

“Now how did you want me?” she asked.

nonameI directed her to the window. (She had asked that I not turn any artificial lights on. She had communicated that if she wasn’t self-conscious about peeing in front of me, she was self-conscious about her body being seen.) I had her open her legs wide, place her hands wide apart on the window. And I started touching her, softly. Her body is smooth, soft, supple. Her breasts are full, big, round. Before my fingers even made first contact, Nastya was writhing.

I had asked her not to come the night before, you see, and she was twitching, aching, needing to come. Not everyone’s this way. Many of us have no problem going days without an orgasm. Nastya? Not so much.

The teasing part of the evening, therefore, was about four times as long as it might otherwise have been. 😉

It was a good thirty or forty minutes before she removed a single item of clothing, before I touched a nipple or her pussy. I just traced lines around her parts, and smacked her ass, hard.

Her ass is spectacular. I’ve written before about spanking, about how it’s not, generally, my thing. But Nastya’s ass demanded spanking, and it got it. When I’d asked her about rules, about limits, she had said simply, “No anal.” I clarified: “Does that mean I can’t press a finger up against your ass?” “No,” she had said, “you can try that.” “And no marks?” I asked. “Yes, please, no marks.”

I’d learned one other thing prior to arriving at the hotel: her date with me was anomalous. She’s not, currently, dating. She’s back together with her ex-boyfriend. Her ex-ex-boyfriend. Her date with me seemed structured in her mind almost as something between a test and a last hurrah. Her ex-ex-boyfriend represented “vanilla” sex – missionary sex, over and over, with nothing ever changing. And I? She wanted to learn….

So she had asked that I not bruise her. Generally, I’m good at limits, at respecting requests of this sort. I fear that, on this particular evening, I failed. I fear that my hand, that my belt, may have left some combination of bruises and welts on her magnificent ass. In my defense, I think we both crossed that line together. But I shouldn’t have. And I apologized, afterward.

As this part of the evening progressed, as I gently traced her thong’s outline under her thighs, around her vulva, her body was gyrating. She was trying to find the angle that would allow her to press her cunt hard against my hand, or against my cock as I stood behind her, cupping her breasts, squeezing them, pinching them. She was over-stimulated, aching.

“I neeeed to come,” she whined.

“Do you want my cock in your mouth?”

“No,” she said, “I need to come.”

It was this exchange that resulted in the first serious rain of blows on her ass. I spanked her ass hard, until she acquiesced to sucking my cock. Until she expressed enthusiasm for sucking my cock. And then, only then – after she had felt my cock fill her mouth, after I had felt her tongue swirl hungrily around my cock – only then did I allow her to feel my touch on her cunt.

I removed her thong (it would have felt more appropriate to tear them off, but I hadn’t gotten permission to destroy them), and dove into her pussy. Shaven, sweet-smelling, tasty, dripping wet. I lapped her up, I slid a finger in, I slid two fingers in. “MORE!” she kept saying. I had four fingers in her, but I could tell, I didn’t have enough fingers on one hand to satisfy her craving to be full.

I often ask women if they prefer vibration or penetration. Many women have a preference. Many prefer both. I’m always slightly relieved when a woman tells me she prefers vibration, because vibration? I can do that. Penetration? That’s more complicated for me. Fucking, as I’ve written, often isn’t what I want. It just isn’t. So if what a woman craves is a cock in her pussy, I’m often not the best candidate. Again – not that I won’t put my cock in her/your pussy, just that it’s far from what I want, often. Add to that, if the sensation a woman craves is being full, well, my cock isn’t necessarily the best one for that particular purpose. I like my cock. Fuck that – I love my cock. But I know my strengths and my limitations, and while my cock is many things, big is not one of them.

So here I was, face to face (face to cunt) with a woman who wanted, who needed, to be full. “Have you ever been fisted?” I asked. “No,” she said, and she made it clear that she didn’t want that.

So, with four fingers in her pussy, my tongue on her clit, and a thumb pressing gently into her asshole, I resumed.

But it wasn’t working. She was frustrated: she needed, she told me, to come, and I’d ruined it all by not letting her come the night before. She was petulant, whiny. She couldn’t get herself off, and I just “wasn’t doing it” for her. She was disappointed in my technique, in my style.

I felt inadequate – never a good thing for a man (for this man) to feel in a sexual context. I don’t mind if I can’t get a woman off. If the sex I’m having is pleasurable for both of us, orgasms are great, but they’re rarely the point. But if the woman’s perspective is that I’m somehow not enough? Well, that sucks.

“Lie back,” I said. “Relax. Stop trying to come. Stop focusing on the orgasm. Just enjoy. I’m enjoying licking your pussy. Enjoy the sensations,” I encouraged her.

I was surprised, but she did. She relaxed. She lay back. She allowed me to feast more on her delicious pussy. And, in no time, she was coming. And boy was she coming. She had asked if she could make noise before we’d begun. I hadn’t understood the importance of this question. She was a fucking banshee. At one point, I tried to get to my phone to record, but I failed – I’d left it on the ledge. After the second, or the third, or the fourth time she had howled in orgasm, I asked her to get my phone. “It’s on the ledge,” I said, and pointed to it.

“No,” she said.

“No?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

I flipped her over, hard, and again, began raining blows on her ass.

“Will you get my phone, please?”

“No,” she said, gritting her teeth, speaking through tears.

I hit her ass more, harder.

“Will you get my phone, please?”

Finally, finally, she assented. “Yes,” she nodded, tears streaming down her face. “Yes.”

She got my phone for me, and I pressed record.

“Are you ok?” I asked. I was checking in – the hits had been hard, the tears, flowing. “I’m ok,” she said. “I’m ok.” “Are you good to suck my cock, now?” I asked. She nodded. She smiled. “Good girl,” I said. “Suck my cock, now.” The phone picked up the sounds of her slobbering, of her choking on my cock as I held her head down.

That’s not quite right. I didn’t so much fuck her face with my cock as she fucked her face with my cock. I was, if anything, holding her back by her hair, not forcing her down.

“I want your cock in me,” she said, gasping for air.

“You do?” I asked.

I reached for a condom.

“You’re lazy,” she said. “I’ve read that about you.”

“I’m lazy when fucking, yes,” I said. “But I don’t think you can say I’m lazy after what I just did to your cunt.”

She agreed.

I rolled the condom on my cock. I said to her, “Sit on my cock, please,” and she did. The noises were extreme once again – the howling, the pounding, the bed hitting the wall. I rolled her over and fucked her from behind. She wanted me to pound her, to fuck her hard, but that wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to feel my cock deep inside her, to feel the walls of her pussy pressing against me hungrily, to feel whatever the male version of the female experience of feeling “full” is. And so I did. From behind, I filled her cunt with my cock. I pressed down, slowly, hard, into her as I held her face in the mattress. I didn’t pull out. I just pressed deeper in. Harder. And then more.

There was more of this. More face-fucking. More cunt-lapping. Her clit was too sensitive, though, and she couldn’t come again. She blamed me for this, my withholding of her orgasm the night before, my technique. I didn’t care any more. I filled her mouth with my cum, and she didn’t stop. I wrestled her head off my cock, and filled her hair with it, too. Playfully, we wrestled. She actually kicked me off the bed. I retaliated, pouring cold water on her stinging ass. On her sore cunt.

We talked. I said something unfortunate, about her ex-ex-boyfriend. She receded. I peed. I thought I heard her leave, imagined what I’d said had been really bad, worse than I knew. I flushed, washed my hands, came out, fully expecting her to have left. She hadn’t. And in fact, she was warm. Maybe I imagined it.

She called a car. We went downstairs. She took a few drags on a cigarette, and got in her waiting lift. We went home, in opposite directions.

She needs more restraints. She needs to be held still while I use her, while I please her. She asked me, before we said goodbye, to include her in a threesome. (She’s been in one before, with a married couple, and had a blast. She wants more.)

She left me genuinely unsure about whether I’ll ever see her again.

But I sure hope I will.

I’m not through with her, yet.

And, a couple of clarifications, after she’s reviewed this draft:

  1. She writes, “Only one correction, you’re wrong when you write ‘I said something unfortunate, about her ex-ex-boyfriend.’ I’m not even sure what you are referring to. What you said was that you only had a your belt and a pillow case to tie me down with and that disappointed me because in my mind that’s enough to have continued the night. Your response turned me off because I wanted more of you and I wasn’t getting it right then and there (I, just like you, am impatient). Hence why I went cold for a bit (just a couple of minutes) but then I snapped out of it because it was a stupid reason to be whining over, and I did crave to see more of you.”
  2. She writes, “I kind of regret not allowing you to take pictures of me that night.” Next time, I will.
  3. She writes, “‘She left me genuinely unsure about whether I’ll ever see her again.’ My answer: yes, you definitely will ;)” I’m very pleased.


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