Anticipation, frustration

Preamble: Rachel and were engaged in a weeks-long flirtation, in which she intermittently frustrated and rewarded me. I called her my good girl, and promised her the most severe of beatings for her misbehavior. Although we commuted together, once, we had never actually spoken. Or hadn’t, before the evening in question – a Thursday.

Part 1: Anticipation

I had grown weary of Rachel’s flakiness. Notwithstanding a small snafu, we both very much enjoyed our commute together so much we thought we’d try again. But Rachel fucked that up in multiple ways, and I was super-annoyed. Not angry – she seemed to want me angry. But annoyed. Bored, I told her. I don’t like bratty subs, and increasingly, she behaved as one.

Then, we planned to meet in a movie theater. I described this fantasy to her, and she liked it. I picked a movie, but thirty minutes before showtime, she chickened out. (I’d anticipated this, so while I felt the loss, I had picked a movie right by my gym, so no biggie.) Later that afternoon, her cunt grew moist, and it briefly seemed she might grant me access to it. But then she chickened out again.

The next night, we planned to meet at a bar, but she backed out citing weather. (The weather did suck, but I was having none of it.) Never mind I offered to pick her up and drop her off, or even simply come to (in?) her. And I’d picked the bar because of its proximity to her home. It was, like, literally, across the street.

After this evening, I was done. Or so I told myself. And her. I wouldn’t make a plan to meet her, wouldn’t go out of my way to meet her, wouldn’t reserve time, forego plans, or in any way take a risk.

And as I told her this, her cunt, once again, began to moisten. It seems she likes to imagine she’s pissed me off, that she’s disappointed me. Even as she protests that she wants to be my good girl, to do as I ask, to please me, it was becoming increasingly clear that she mistakes my politeness – my “please” and “thank you” – for weakness, and she was, simply, failing to deliver, in hopes of provoking my ire. (At this point, I banished “please” from my vocabulary, for the most part.)

I told her, a few nights later, that I would be sitting at the bar for an hour, between 8:15 and 9:15 or so. She could come. Or not. I no longer had a dog in the race. I wouldn’t tell her what to wear, wouldn’t ask her to be there. I wouldn’t be disappointed, I told her – and myself – if she didn’t come.

But she did come.

Part 2: Frustration

We planned to meet at 9:30, a five/ten minute walk from the bar.

She’s an inch or so shorter than I, but on her heels, she’s my height. Her hair is brunette, lustrous. She wears lipstick and make-up in the increasingly hegemonic style of twenty-something women whose faces are memorialized dozens of times a day on Snapchat and Instagram. She doesn’t need to wear lipstick. She’s just beautiful, with clear skin and deep brown eyes, and luscious lips and bright white teeth. The makeup detracts for me. (But don’t tell her – I’m sure she’d be offended.) I’d rather her face be au naturel.

So we sat in the bar. We talked. We flirted. She’d revealed herself to be a dirty girl in late night texts: “I want you in my ass,” she messaged me once. But in person, she couldn’t tolerate words like “pussy,” or “cunt” or “fuck” or even “sex” spoken aloud, within hearing distance of the bartender. “Does he know about you?” she asked. “Does he know what we’re doing here?”

“I suspect so,” I said. I had told him, earlier in the evening, that tonight I was Nick.

“I want you to go to the bathroom,” I began, but she interrupted me.

“I know what you’re going to ask,” she said. “I read it on your blog.”

She didn’t, actually, know what I was going to ask. I told her that. She was wearing tights, and a black skirt – one the wind had been blowing up all evening, she’d told me. I wasn’t going to ask her for her panties. In fact, I’d asked her for her panties on one of our aspirational morning commutes, and she’d told me she wasn’t comfortable with that. I don’t ask twice when denied. (Rapists ask twice. Abusers ask twice. Sociopaths ask twice. Generally speaking, if you tell me “no,” I trust you mean it. Unless you’ve told me a “safe word.” Even if I’m asking not that you fuck me, that you let me fuck you, but that you furtively hand your redolent panties in a wad to me.)

“So what were you going to ask?”

“I don’t think you want me to say it aloud,” I predicted. “Should I whisper it to you?”

She nodded. This pretty young woman who had told me she wanted me in her ass nodded demurely, almost innocently, batting her pretty, long eyelashes. I grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulled her head toward me, and said what I wanted her to do in her ear, softly. At length. She shifted uncomfortably on her stool.

“I don’t think I’m comfortable with that,” she said, after a pause.

“Ok,” I said.

From there, it wasn’t much longer. Although I gave her the opportunity to leave with me, I did so, honestly, knowing she wouldn’t.

I walked Rachel to her train, we kissed goodbye, on the lips, but chastely – she didn’t grant my tongue entry – and we went our separate ways.

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