And while we wait… a virtual date

I will next feast on Charlotte in just about three weeks. Until then, though, I’ll have to make do with a virtual date or two. Our first such date approaches, and here are just a few of my thoughts:

Charlotte greets me, dressed in a sort of shorts jump suit, black, flouncy. I know that beneath it, she’s wearing a purple bralette. And black cotton boyshorts. And, tucked between the boyshorts and her pretty, shaven (not because I want it that way), wet (because I want it that way) pussy is her brand new WeVibe vibrator.

We each have a drink at the ready.

“Cheers!” I say, as I greet her.

We each take small sips – she of her drink of choice, me of my scotch. Small talk ensues. We talk about our days, about our weeks. As we talk, we pause to configure the vibrator so I have remote control of the sensations on her clit. We test it out. We establish the rhythms, the strengths, that affect her differently. Calibrating each of our expectations.

And we talk some more, but now, more sexually. I rev the vibrator, I stop it. I see how close I can bring her, from hundreds of miles away, to a shuddering climax. I see how quickly I can pull her back from the precipice.

I have her lower the top half of her jump suit, so I can see her full breasts in their soft fabric. I have her play with her nipples, show me how she likes them touched. I rev the vibrator hard, rendering her speechless, eliciting sighs, moans, groans, breaths deeper, quicker, more frantic, than usual. I stop it, eliciting pleas for more.

I have her remove the bralette. Now she sits before me topless, and we play with her nipples, her breasts, some more. She’s squirming now, on the tantalizing border of pleasure and longing, as I manipulate the sensations in her cunt with my phone.

Maybe she’s ready to come now. Maybe she’s asking. Maybe she’s begging.

I am certainly not ready.

I have her step out of the jump suit entirely, show me her big, meaty, firm ass. I have her pose for me. Bend over. Turn. Kneel. Crawl. All the while making the motor of the vibrator murmur louder, softer, louder, as her clit is swelling with need.

I ask her to stand before me. Maybe I give her control of the vibrator. As I stroke my cock – maybe still in my jeans, maybe out – I instruct her to give us her first orgasm of the date. “Come for me,” I say. “Now. Please.”

She revs the vibrator, adjusts her position, moves to sit, or to lie. “No,” I instruct. “Standing. Facing me. Your eyes on mine.”

She’s struggling. The position isn’t relaxing. The eye contact is distracting. She isn’t sure she can come.

“Bullshit,” I say. “Of course you can come. I’ll be glad to wait as long as it takes.”

Of course, it doesn’t take long. The first orgasm arrives moments later, and the second isn’t far behind. Maybe she slows the vibrator down. Maybe I rev it back up. Maybe I have her turn around, put her ass in my face. Maybe I have her lie down. Maybe I keep her standing. Who knows. But by now, her pussy is drenched, her thighs are beginning to quiver from over stimulation.

“Take off your panties,” I say, and she does, instantly.

“Lose the vibrator. For now.”

She does.

“Stand before me,” I growl. “Open your legs for me. Wider.”

She does.

“Come again, please. This time just with your fingers.”

“Please can I use my vibrator? It’s so much better?” She’s pleading.

“No thank you,” I say. “I want to see you use your fingers.”

Charlotte surprises herself, quickly extracting yet another orgasm from her seemingly inexhaustible – but exhausted – pussy. And another. And another.

Finally, I say, “Get your vibrator, please.”

At this distance, I can’t restrain her, can’t do anything she doesn’t want me to do, depend utterly not just on her passively allowing me to continue, but on her actively serving as the implementer of my lewd, insatiable desires.

No worries, though, as she seems to delight in this role, in the delicious tension she feels between needing to stop and wanting to please me. She knows that when she finally, finally stops, it will be not because she has decided to, but because I’ve decided she may. (Or, of course, because she’s told me she’s at her limit, because she’s said “red.”)

If she doesn’t say “red,” though, it seems unlikely I’ll ask her to stop. 

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