Jude’s fingers are wet (or at least, they were supposed to be)

Part 1

Soon, she will greet me. Generously, she has agreed to give me control over her orgasms for a period of slightly longer than 72 hours.

Yesterday, after we stretched, I asked to to edge for me. Shortly after I asked this, she sent me a selfie of her wearing a puffy green top, and the bike shorts in which she just had stretched with me. (I’d asked her to wear something yellow; she’d told me she didn’t own yellow. I’d asked her to wear something green.)

“May I cum?” she wrote.

“Did you bring yourself to the edge?” I asked.

“Yes I did.”

“Tell me about that, please.”

Jude has a laconic inscrutability. I struggle slightly to locate her feelings among her words. On the one hand, notwithstanding her promised brattiness, she has mustered nothing but obedience and compliance in her interactions with me (until the interactions described herein). On the other? Her obedience and compliance are delivered… laconically. A minimum of words. Not a lot of affect.

“Well I used my vibrator and had my legs spread apart really wide. I could feel it coming on super fast so I started using my fingers. I was super wet and super close .. and then I stopped.”

“Sounds hot,” I wrote. “I would prefer if you not come just yet, please. What are you up to? Where are you?”

“In my bed. I was waiting for your answer.”

“Edge again, please.”


I was a little surprised. There had been no response at all to my denying her request. And my second edging request just got “Okay.” Was she happy? Sad? Angry? Laughing?

Five minutes later, I texted her, “I see you at 2:30 tomorrow. You may come. But not before 2:25 tomorrow.”

Finally, a reaction: “Ugh okay.”

“Did you edge again?”

“Yes it was really hard not to cum.”

Over the next two and a half hours, I sent five texts. I praised her. Encouraged her to persuade me to change my mind. Promised a reward I’ve been thinking of for her. And, asked about her pussy.

A bit more than an hour after my last text, she wrote, “I’m aching. What kind of reward?”

I told her we would discuss tomorrow. (I had in mind a remote-control vibrator, like the one Marina and I had used to such good effect.)

I asked where she was. I asked to see her cunt, in what she was wearing. She promptly showed me. I replied, “Mmm. Good girl. Thank you. That pussy needs my fingers. And cock.” I added, “If you want more interaction, it’s available. If not, I will see you tomorrow.” And I didn’t hear from her again until the next afternoon. She comes and goes, this Jude. Texting back and forth in real time, and disappearing for long swaths of time.

I told her, when I heard, that I had told her she could come shortly before we met, but that I’d changed my mind. That I would prefer she continue to wait.

“Ohhh okay,” she wrote. It is a feature of texting that I have no fucking idea what that means.

I asked, “What do you think?”

To which she replied, “Kinda frustrated but it’s part of the fun. Makes it more worthwhile when I finally get to cum.”

I wrote, “I encourage lobbying, if you’re feeling eager.”

“Nah, I want to wait.”

“I might just ask you to come then,” I said.

At which point, she said, “Are you ever going to write about me again?”

I don’t get Jude.

Part 2

She put her pretty ass in front of me, in a pair of dark leggings, with webbing on the side. The leggings featured that pretty ass most excellently, notwithstanding Zoom’s tendency to erase all black.

She expressed a little jealousy that I had written a post about Emma. Which you may or may not have seen by the time you read this. Because Emma’s got her own inscrutable diffidence thing going on. And then, Jude took back the jealousy, telling me she was kidding. (She wasn’t.)

Jude’s motivation with me is somewhat obscure. Yes, there’s the financial motivation associated with the stretching. I have the sense though that we aren’t really in a land of financial motivation here, that we’re flirting with a different kind of motivation.

At one point, I asked about her interest in my writing about her. “You’re not going to like the answer,” she said. And then, told me that she likes knowing what people think about her, that it wasn’t especially sexual, that it’s more about understanding my perceptions of her. And yes, if they touched on the sexual, that was great. But she doesn’t lack for sexual confidence. At. All. And it doesn’t seem she needs my praise to sustain that.

She was wrong – I wasn’t disappointed. I asked because I wanted to know the answer. Not because I wanted a particular answer.

What I want from Jude that she may or may not have to give is enthusiasm, desire, hunger. She offers a sort of half-assed (or maybe not half-assed, but half-hearted) compliance. Which is to say, she complies with precisely that with which she wishes to comply. She’s playing around, having fun.

When we met, her instruction – which she’d acknowledged, and accepted – was to arrive having just edged, her fingers wet. Hence the title of this post.

“Did you edge for me?” I asked when she arrived. “No,” she said. “Please go do that now,” I said. I’ll stretch while you do that. I didn’t ask to watch. I didn’t ask to listen. I simply asked her to do it. “No,” she said. “I like to get a little worked up with you, and then I’ll do it.” She wasn’t defiant. She wasn’t playful. She wasn’t apologetic.

She was simply clear, and certain.

We’re deep in complicated territory that’s partly commercial and partly not, and that features questions of consent and submission, to boot. There’s a lot going on.


I wasn’t so happy with this answer, with this delivery of this answer.

If I ask a woman to do something she doesn’t want to do, there are a thousand ways she may respond other than “No.” I’ve written extensively on this.

Jude’s motivation is somehow different than that for which I long. I have the sense she’s having fun, rather than feeding hunger. Me? I’m hungry.

Fun is good. I like fun.

But hunger?

That’s where the juice is.

This is Jude


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