She comes and goes. She’s scared of me, of the feelings she imagines she will feel for me.
I’m afraid I can’t help much with that. I tried – it’s not me you would develop feelings toward; it’s some projection in your mind. You don’t know me. You barely know me. How could you possibly imagine that you would fall for me? I’m average, normal, not that interesting. What’s interesting about me – to the extent anything is – is my interest in myself, my openness to myself. But beyond that? Not so much.
We scheduled a conversation. She would take herself somewhere outdoors, but private. She would dress as I asked. (A blue shift dress. Black panties. Sneakers, because she would be walking. A black bra. At least that’s what I think we specified – it was several days earlier, and she set the messages to disappear in the app we’re using to communicate)
We were going to discuss her relationship to sex, sexuality. I was going to make her uncomfortable. To have her squeeze her thighs together so she could feel the pressure in her clit. To have her open her thighs apart in the most un-ladylike way. Possibly, to have her touch herself, just a little, in a way that would strain against the boundaries of propriety in her public setting. All, while I would be whispering words like “cock” and “cunt” and “finger” and “tongue” and “fuck” and “suck” in the earbuds that would be nestled in the only two holes in her body to which I could have meaningful access at this particular distance, at this particular moment.
So that was the plan.
But she canceled it. Scared of falling. Eager to avoid whatever pain, discomfort, might be associated with falling. She told me she’d be back in touch, but she canceled our meeting.
Which was a bummer. Because my cock had stiffened at the prospect of making her very, very uncomfortable, of making her cunt wet at a time of day, a location, at which it wasn’t… convenient. And I was excited at the prospect of getting to know her better. So, a loss.
At the end of the day on which our appointed meeting didn’t happen, I shot her a short message: “So just to say it,” I wrote, “I did not spend an hour talking to you…. And I noticed, and missed, the opportunity.”
She responded with a question she said she “kept thinking about,” that she “wanted to ask [me].”
“If we were together and I felt that I had to have your cock in my mouth, that my survival depended on it, would you give it to me straight away, or would you wait? Would you lie down, or sit up, or stand, when you fed it to me?”
My response: “Well gosh. So much would depend on the circumstances prior. But I certainly imagine that I would enjoy hearing you beg.”
Poor IWOM. She was off to the races. “Please. For the love of god, tell me how and when you’ll put your cock in my mouth. Please. It’s not a lot to ask.” And there was more. And more. And more. Ending with, “Please, N, don’t be cruel.”
Of course, I’m not the cruel one here. She slipped from the conditional to the future – from what would I do to when will I…. All while she hasn’t given me what I want. And what I want is what I asked for, what she decided she didn’t want to give me, previously.
An hour of her time.