Actually, the same Hope. But it seems she may, once again, be open to allowing me to use her in the ways I please.
When we stopped seeing one another, she ended it. She liked me – it wasn’t anything to do with conflict – it was just that she found certain aspects of interacting with me unsatisfying. I wasn’t as effusive in my praise of her as she craved. My instructions – which are plentiful remotely, by text, and e-mail – often dried up once my cock was in her mouth, and she was hungry for me to say much, much more in those circumstances. And much more, as I elaborated in this post, a while ago.
Just before the pandemic, Hope and I met a few times, at my instigation. Our meetings weren’t explicitly sexual: she was clear that her body was not available to my hands, mouth, cock, for use. She did, though, make it available for my eyes. Each time we met, I instructed her as to how I wanted to see her, and she came to me, dressed as instructed, and we chatted. I asked her questions. She answered them. I asked her to cross, or un-cross, her legs, and she did as I asked. I didn’t ask her to remove anything, or to play with herself.
Fast forward 18 months (and a pandemic). My phone buzzed with a text: “Hello – how are you? I’ve been thinking about that beautiful space you invited me into for a … project? What happened there?”
“COVID, silly. Want to resume? (I was JUST thinking of you.)”
This was true. When I wrote this post, about longing to dive into a woman’s pussy, Hope was very much in my mind. I told her this.
“I cringe at the thought of my thighs being ‘fat,'” she said.
Hope’s thighs are anything but fat. When I wrote the post, I wrote inaptly: it wasn’t just Hope I was imagining. It was also at least two other, specific, women. One of whom you haven’t met on this blog and likely won’t, whose thighs are fat. And another whom you have, whose thighs also are fat. In retrospect, I should’ve been more clear. Because, to the extent I was thinking of Hope, “fat” is just a ridiculous word to use.
Hope could be a Rockette. I mean, literally – Hope could be a Rockette. (Not the Rockette, but a Rockette.) Her legs are incredible. Strong, lean, toned, shapely. If I were to hurt her while going down on her, Hope could asphyxiate me with her thighs. Easily.
But not because they’re fat. Because they’re strong.
She continued…. “I want to go out.”
It didn’t take long before I was choosing the clothes she will wear. In the bra discussion, she mentioned her DD-cup breasts. It’s funny – in my mind, they were big C cups. In my mind, DD is… REALLY big. And Hope’s breasts are perfectly proportionate to her body. Chalk one up to a little confusion on my part at the bigger end of the cup scale.
But Hope’s breasts are phenomenal, if somewhat challenging for her to support in sexy lingerie.
So as our date approaches, I’ve dressed Hope. A lacy, dark blue bra. Cheeky black hip huggers (not boy shorts, not a thong). [Note to Hope: black, please, if possible – you had said “dark.”] Dressy shorts. And a button top that gives me a glimpse of her (excellent, prodigious) cleavage.
My cock has been pretty much hard ever since that text exchange.
I know what I did wrong. I know what I need to do to get it right. And I have a great interest in getting it right: in addition to being model-hot (and there are head shots of her on the web to testify to this), in addition to having violent curves, and being phenomenally athletic, Hope is just perfectly compliant. She
gives gave me whatever I asked. And she does so in a way that’s nearly perfectly attuned to my needs.
What’s more? She’s smart. Funny. A good conversationalist. I’d happily hang out with her and drink and not fuck her face, and not collect one or eight of her hard-fought orgasms from her. Which I will do. Though of course, she must know (as in, I imagine she knows AND it’s important that she know) how hard even that image makes me, let alone the thought, the memory, the fantasy, of her hard-fought orgasms, her compliant kneeling, her violent bucking, her delicious, slightly salty, cunt.
Back in the day, I posted a few of Hope’s orgasms on this blog. I’m hopeful that I’ll have a few more of hers to share in the coming days, though I can’t promise that. [Note to Hope: if you’re willing, please come for me, and send me your orgasm, so that I may link to it in this or a subsequent post.]
What I can promise is that I will have more than a couple of orgasms (more than I already have had) anticipating our upcoming date. Which will, by design and structure, be at least mostly, if not completely, chaste.
I’ll keep you posted.
But Hope – rest assured, I’ve learned my lesson, and heeded your words.
When you next kneel in front of me, your pretty eyes looking up at me, my cock filling your mouth, I promise to call you a good girl, and to tell you exactly what to do with your lips, your tongue, your hands, even as I praise your skill and compliance.
When we meet for a drink, I’ll tell you how fucking hard you make me, and how excited I am to slip a finger or three into your slick cunt. I’ll tell you how much my cock has longed for you, how much my hands have missed gripping your taut, strong flesh.
And before too long, ish’allah, I’ll show you.
Postscript: In reviewing this post, Hope felt it necessary to caution me:
Thank you for writing about me so thoughtfully. I love it.
I know it’s helpful for me to manage expectations for you so here’s where I am:
I reached out because I miss … chatting- it was hot, informative, and social (in a way). Meeting with you in that context was fun for me.
I also miss going out. Getting dressed. Having an excuse to shave my legs and curl my hair. Sitting next to someone who appreciates the effort. And talking. Drinking. Flirting.
Access to my body is still not on the table. If this makes seeing me just flat out disappointing – let’s not. If it’s deliciously frustrating – let’s go.
Well, it’s not flat-out disappointing, but it is disappointing. But fuck, I like me a good tease. So full steam ahead.
And, she sent me this picture of someone (not her) to evoke her…
She also sent a picture, just for me, of her lips and her breasts, in response to which, I wrote:
Damn woman. Those breasts are just spectacular. And I can’t tell you how sad it makes me that I can’t spend an hour with my hands, fingers, mouth and cock just delighting in them.
It seems criminal that they’re not, and won’t soon be, wrapped around my cock.
None of which stops my cock from being hard.
They’re so full! I hadn’t remembered that as well as I should have.
She misunderstood my intended antecedent to “they’re” in the last line. I had intended “Your lips,” but she assumed I meant “Your breasts.” Nope. I mean, they are. But that’s not what I meant.
And…. she sent me this:
Yup. She came for me. That is one fucking sexy woman. Listen as she fights for, and wins, that orgasm. I win too! And, so do you! (Holy SHIT the end – starting just before minute three – is great.)
Hope won’t die. She always dies last.