Part 1 – Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet, and Watch: in Which I’m Fingered by a Self-Proclaimed ‘Slut’ at a Bar

I wrote the other day about a recent date with Sheila, a new plaything from far away. She, and I, thought you might enjoy reading her version of our first date.


There is just too much to say about our virtual foreplay. I will say this though, the weeks of picture taking, directive dressing, tutored touching, writing about your cock in my mouth, orgasm recording, orgasm describing (orgasms that YOU gave me, orgasms that were yours) left me very excited for Tuesday 22 September.

You were fun and hot before I met you. Then we met, and you got better.

I was lost when you found me on the street. Yes I was excited, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t also extremely nervous. My nerves, at this exact moment, were now compounded by the awkward anxiousness I felt about not being able to find the joint! Great. I’ll be late…I hate being late.

I texted you. Told you I was lost. No reply. Then I heard a voice and turned. “Can’t find it?” You. It’s you! You were walking up to me and smiling. You made me smile. You came right up to me with the confidence I would expect from N, and put your hand around my waist and kissed me; chastely, because I think you could sense my hesitation. My hesitation was only due to said nerves and anxiety (both in rapid decline at this point luckily). You looked me up and down before you directed us to the “oh so hipster” bar. Hipster nonsense.

I felt over dressed, but I reminded myself I dressed for you. “This is what he wants.” I calmed down. You stared some more. I averted my eyes some more. You have lovely skin. Is that odd to say? Well you do. I noticed the color and I wanted to touch your face and forearm. I didn’t have the courage or permission yet to do either so I coveted silently. You told me I was hot. You said it matter-of-factly after another peruse of my figure. I did something that I do, but hate, and said, “No I’m not” and shirked my shoulders. You called me on that. “Don’t do that”, you said. Thank you. Then you told me to go to the bathroom and take off my panties.

I was wet before I arrived. Following your directions, I had been touching myself the entire time I was dressing. You brought my hand up to your lips and nose before I went to the bathroom, but you couldn’t smell my cunt. Pity.

We sat at the bar and talked. Our conversation was easy, fun, and hot. You started to touch my stocking covered thigh. You went right up to the spot where the thigh turns into pelvis. You found that small patch of skin real estate that exists just before you reach the plump of my pussy lip. Your finger stayed there for a while barely touching me. You kept the conversation going and I think you wanted me to do the same, but honestly all coherent thought left me at that point so you’re lucky I didn’t fall off the stool.

You were watching my face. You were watching my lips. I like when you stare. Whatever you saw on my face gave you the green light to touch my cunt (do you wait for a green light?). I watched your face this time when you touched me. Your resolve cracked just a smidge when you felt how wet I was. You dipped your head a bit and looked up at me with hooded eyes. We both sipped our drink. You played with my wet pussy and clit for a while before you slid a finger into me. When you did, we both moved into the motion. I had my knee pressed up against your crotch and I could feel your hard cock. I asked if I could kiss you. You didn’t seem to want to kiss me and I couldn’t wait any longer.

You started to play with me with more determination, rubbing me harder and faster, fingering me deeper and deeper. You almost made me come. I would have, if I wasn’t so aware of all the people literally elbow length away from me. You took your finger out of me and tasted it. You said I tasted delicious. You brought my face to your lips and we tasted your finger together. You said, “See?” I said, “I guess so” and you slapped my face (lightly) and said, “no”. You don’t seem to like it when either a) I don’t agree with you b) put myself down c) don’t say exactly what I mean d) all of the above.

We took a break from the lust and went to have a cigarette. You told me to stand in the corner and pushed me up against the wall a bit. Crowding me. You told me that the booze must be hitting you because you were very close to dropping to your knees so you could taste my clit. When we went back to the bar, and after you put your hand back in me, you told me I was ready to go to the hotel. I was.


  1. Her writing style sounds very similar to yours. Funny.

    You fingered, licked fingers, and slapped a woman all inches away from other people @ the bar? Hmmmm I doubt a lot of your story.

    1. Ok, so a) you think I made the story up, and b) you think I then wrote her version of it?

      Obvs, you don’t know me very well. 😉

      And, just out of curiosity: what would my motivation be for that sequence of events? And how does that motivation relate to everything else on this blog? I’m obviously not someone eager to toot my own horn — this blog is just FILLED with stories of failure, pain, angst, etc. So how does this particular fiction fit into that? (Oh, and…. I can’t write fiction for the life of me. I’ve tried, really hard. It just doesn’t work.)

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.