FUCK. Charlotte has the hottest, cutest, sexiest voice I think I’ve ever heard. It seems slightly incongruous with her personality. Slightly.
Her voice sounds incredibly innocent. It’s high. Lilting. Sweet. With a – I wanted to write “tentativity,” but that’s not quite right. She’s confident, but her voice, her intonation, conveys a certain… restraint? As if she is confident, but wants to be heard as maybe a bit less so. And, she sounds shy. Very shy. Do you know about me and voices? If not, read this. And everything else in my “voice” tag.
Charlotte is not shy. As you can hear by listening to the first orgasm she sent me. Which, I confess, I’m listening to on a loop – with the second orgasm she sent me – as I write this. If you have a cock and are straight, or if you don’t and you’re not, I dare you not to get hard as you listen to her increasingly desperate breaths, which sound almost like pleas.
Charlotte’s thighs are meaty. Not fat. But big, thick, juicy. The other night, as she rode a late-night train, she managed to snap a picture of them for me in her leggings without using her flash, in spite of the darkness.
“Delicious,” I wrote. “But… I just ALWAYS want your thighs open for me. Never closed.”
Charlotte isn’t the first person I’ve said that to. Hell, she wasn’t the first person I said it to that day. She had read a bunch of my blog, but not enough to learn that little detail about me – that the vulnerability implied by opening her thighs is the whole fucking point of my request.
“Noted,” she replied.
“I want to imagine my head in that space. My hand. My hands. My cock. Hard to do if I have to imagine forcing those legs apart, first. I mean… I’m up to the challenge. But I prefer you to give it to me than to have to take it.” <—- This last sentence: my credo (if modified to be, “I prefer you to give me what I ask for than to have to take it”).
Within minutes, Charlotte had offered to send me her thighs, open, every day, before noon. I accepted. Obvs.
Her first day, the photo came at 12:14 p.m. She told me she realized at 11:59 that she was blowing through her deadline.
Charlotte’s got a bunch of tattoos, including a colorful
butterfly moth on her shin. “Show me your butterfly,” I said.
“It’s a moth,” she said.
“What kind of moth is it?”
“It’s a moth that you liked?”
Her hair is dark. It’s cut quite short on the right side, I think, though in general, it’s longer. Her smile is bright, her teeth pearly white.
“You should turn around and come back to see me tonight,” I texted, as she hurtled away from me on her train.
But she will.