Sheila and I matched on Tinder in spite of thousands and thousands of miles of ocean between us. We instantly got on well, messaging first in Tinder, then in Kik, and, finally, in e-mail. It happened that she was planning a trip to my city in the relatively near future.

As the date approached, the excitement ratcheted. She sent me pictures of her pretty self, including her face, and her body. She’s a bit self-conscious, but – as often is the case – her self-consciousness about her body is the only flaw I could see. She had worried that she’s not “my type.” I’m not sure what she meant by that – she’s not tiny, true, but she’s proportional, and once her heels came off, an inch or two shorter than I. Her hair is straight, hangs to her nipples. Her face, a perfect oval. Her lips are full. Her eyes are hard to see, because they’re almost always facing down. An admirable trait in a woman, I say.

This isn’t her, but it’s not a terrible approximation of her. As you’ll see, she’s quite pretty:

I chose the clothes she would wear (a black dress, black panties, black bra, stockings) and picked out a quiet speakeasy.

I arrived to find her lost on the street outside, incongruously formal, incongruously hot, for a semi-grungy back street. As befits a speakeasy, the door was unmarked, and the buzzer obscure. A bearded hipster opened the door and beckoned us in. She was prettier than her pictures had communicated. Her photos – she seemed casually to send photos of her face – always showed her a little… anxious. But in person, she smiled, wide, and her mouth looked delightful. Delicious. Welcoming. I couldn’t wait to feed her my cock.

We placed ourselves at the front of the bar, near the door, while we waited for bar stools to open up, and we had our first drink. At this bar, one doesn’t order a drink. One tells the bartender the sorts of drinks one likes, and she comes up with some pretentious concoction, specially conjured just for you.

After our first drink, we made our way to the two stools at the back of the bar, and made ourselves comfortable. Conversation was easy, fun, hot. Soon enough, my fingers were deep in her pussy, even as we sat at the bar. Could anyone tell? I don’t think so…. Her smile disappeared, replaced by a hungry, plaintive, desperate longing. She tells me that I “almost made [her] cum [sic] at that bar.” She adds, “I was so afraid that I wouldn’t be able to keep quiet. Having so many people around me, close to me and your fingers in me while you were staring at me was almost too much.”

I sent her along to her hotel. I’d asked her to give me a key, and to wait for me on her balcony, arms, legs, spread. I found her, precisely as I’d asked, just a few minutes later.

It was raining, and the balcony wasn’t immune. We took in the lightning, the thunder, and I drank her in. We kissed, hard. I stripped her panties and dress off [no I didn’t, she reminds me; she had lost her panties in the bar], and I devoured her cunt. She came, hard. She devoured my cock. I came, hard. (Note: as has happened not infrequently in the last year or so, I wasn’t as hard as I’d have liked, notwithstanding Cialis. This is not in any way a knock on her. I was oh-so-turned on, and, as I said, came extremely hard. I apologized, and she seemed to take it in stride.)

We debriefed a little. Talked about her family, about her visit to the States. And agreed that there would be more.

And there will.

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