I haven’t finished writing about my long day/night with Charlotte. I haven’t started writing about a quick visit we had in which I tied Charlotte’s ankles to my chair – just as I had fantasized about doing to Hope‘s ankles (though to a similar, but slightly different chair) – and devoured her cunt. But I thought I’d try to get ahead of things a little by writing about the most recent date while it’s fresh in my mind, while her cunt’s flavor is still on my beard.
I directed Charlotte to arrive at the bar a few minutes before I would arrive. “I’m here,” she said. “There’s a lot of women here.”
This was strange. The bar isn’t, usually, dominated by women. Except that, on a couple of occasions, I have been there when there was a long table of Rockettes. (Not the Rockette. But Rockettes.)
“Are the Rockettes there?” I asked.
“I don’t see any,” she said.
“Are you getting attention?” I asked her.
“Only from the bartender.”
We had a little back and forth about the bartender. Was it the bartender? No. Was it J, the former bar-back who had been promoted to bartender? Her description made it sound like it might be J. Whom I like.
I arrived in the bar. I walked behind her. She didn’t see me. Her face, pale, stood out among the relatively few faces in the bar: unquestionably, the hottest woman in the place. (And no, there weren’t so very many women there. There just weren’t many single men.)
“It’s not J,” I texted.
She looked up, confused. How could I know that? Her eyes found me at the far end of the bar.
The bartender neglected me, the guys next to me, the couple on the other side of me. He was attending to Charlotte, and to a pair of women sitting next to Charlotte. I didn’t like his look. He’s tall (which I never like in a man – I’m envious). But more than that – he had a slight… stoop? in the way he carried his head. It read to me as a sort of affected considerateness, a considerateness belied by his neglect of all the XY-chromosome folks at the bar. I didn’t take his neglect personally. But it did bug me that it took a solid ten minutes for me to get my scotch in a bar that just wasn’t that busy.
So anyway – Charlotte and I texted back and forth. I wrote in a notebook about her. She asked me to write about her personality, which I did a bit. I won’t share it here because, honestly, it’s not great writing, even if I did do a good job of capturing Charlotte’s emotional intelligence, her sadness, her relationship to sex. So I wrote. And I sipped. And, after a bit, I picked up my drink, my bag, my coat, and walked down the bar to sit next to Charlotte.
I kissed her hello on the lips, taking a little of schadenfreude as the bartender’s aspirations for the evening went up in smoke before him.
“What do you like about sitting apart in a bar?” Charlotte asked.
“That’s an interesting question,” I said.
I recalled that time with V that I just recalled in another post. I explained how there’s something about the mixture of anticipation (we’re apart, but I know we’ll be together soon, and really together not too long after that), secrecy (we know something no one else in the bar knows, or can reasonably intuit), power (secrecy conveys power, no?), and vanquishment (the bartender saw Charlotte as quarry, surely, until I appeared – though he didn’t give up easy, as you’ll read). I particularly enjoy that vanquishment – albeit in a non-sexual way. It’s not what I seek when I sit apart from a gorgeous woman who soon will swallow my cock in a bar. But it is a prize I happily collect.
We continued talking – about our day, about the bartender serving us, about the bartender, about bartending generally (Charlotte has bartended; I haven’t), about men, about women. I had her keep her legs apart for me (which Charlotte finds uncomfortable). I sent her to the bathroom to remove her panties – panties she only wears because I ask. Commando is her preferred mode. “I feel relieved, free,” she said, as she handed them to me, as I pocketed them. We ordered some food – hummus, calamari, summer rolls. We ate. We drank – I had my second scotch, she her third wine. We discussed just what the bartender might think our story was.
After a bit, I was ready. Ready for Charlotte’s pretty red lips to encircle my cock. Ready to feel her thick thighs on my ears. Ready to hear her voice quiver and moan, to feel her cunt squeeze with orgasms, to taste her sweet juices. Ready for all that.
I had booked a room in a hotel just around the corner from the bar. It didn’t take us long to get there. We each smoked a cigarette as we walked, and the hotel was less than a full cigarette from the bar. So we stood, outside, taking a few final drags on our cigarettes, and it dawned on me: “I would like to do something public,” Charlotte had told me a while before, when I’d asked if she had any hopes for this date.
“I forgot about the ‘public’ thing!” I said.
“Yes, I forgot. Let’s go back.”
We put out our cigarettes, and returned to the bar, discussing just what the bartender might tell himself now about us…. We sat ourselves back in the same two seats we had occupied only five minutes earlier, and ordered another round from the bemused, befuddled bartender.
“Now,” I said. “Come for me.”
“????” Charlotte said, with her eyes.
“Come for me. Right here. Right now.”
“I don’t know if I can!” she protested.
“You come easily,” I pointed out. “You can.”
And Charlotte reached down beneath her dress. She slid a finger into her cunt, and began making small movements. We continued talking as her breath quivered a bit. “I don’t know if I can,” she said again.
“Do you think my finger might help?” I asked.
One of the two women sitting to our right returned from the restroom. Could she see as my hand snaked under the dress, into Charlotte’s cunt? I think she could. I think she was unhappy, that she and her friend were clucking with disapproval at around the moment that Charlotte shuddered, her head collapsing into my shoulder, as she was overcome with an orgasm not three feet from that disapproving woman, six or eight from the envious bartender, and in a room with, probably, fifty other people in it.
She straightened out her dress. Sat up straight. Finished her drink. As I did mine. And we turned to leave.
The bartender said something about the nights he worked to Charlotte, clearly inviting her back to see him without me. And for the second time that evening, we walked toward the hotel. This time, though, I stopped Charlotte about three or four buildings before we reached the hotel, and pushed her up against a recessed wall, in a driveway leading to a loading dock. I kissed her, hard. Reached my hand down, under, up, and slid a finger into her still-wet (wet again?) pussy. I pressed my palm against her pubis, kissing her, swirling tongues, as I quickly brought her to her second orgasm in five minutes. Both in public. This one, on the street.
And then, we were off to the hotel.
It didn’t take long for me to manage the check-in process. I handed her the key and sent her to the room. “Strip naked,” I instructed her. “And lie on the bed, waiting for me.”
When I entered the room I found Charlotte, her skin pale, her legs apart, her pretty, curvy body nude, wet, waiting. I didn’t make her wait long this time, and I just dove in, lapping at her cunt hungrily, collecting orgasm after orgasm. Charlotte wasn’t as loud this time as she had been previously (if not the last time). There’s something about – about what, about Charlotte? About this moment in my life? Both? – well, there’s something about something that, at the moment at least, has me more interested in Charlotte’s orgasms than just about anything else. That’s not to say that I don’t want to feel her mouth on my cock, her tongue swirling, her lips gripping – I do. Desperately. But not so desperately that I am, at any particular moment when licking her clit, even remotely prepared to stop. And so I didn’t. I kept going. More orgasms. More orgasms. More orgasms.
“I need a break!” she protested.
I didn’t stop.
“I need a break!” she protested again.
I didn’t stop.
“RED!” she said.
Finally, finally I stopped. It might have been half an hour after I started licking. Probably more. But I stopped.
“I want to suck your cock,” she said.
“You will,” I said.
“I want you to fuck me!”
“I know you do.”
I lowered my mouth to her cunt. Again. And again.
Finally, I was ready. “Please suck my cock for me,” I said.
Charlotte crawled down the bed, positioned her head between my thighs, and began licking my shaft, swallowing my cock. “Play with my balls,” I instructed her. “Lick a little more. Let me feel your tongue while my cock is in your mouth.”
Charlotte’s a talented little cock-sucker. And, a very, very good girl. She did precisely as instructed. She sucked. And sucked. And sucked.
“Are you going to come?” she asked, at a certain point.
Charlotte’s appetite for my cock – powerful, strong – isn’t as strong as mine for her cunt. Where I can devour her indefinitely, Charlotte’s mouth gets tired. My oral fatigue is no bar to my oral ministrations. Charlotte was nearing the end of her ability to suck my cock.
“I’ll come,” I said. And, shortly, I did, filling her greedy mouth with my cum.
Charlotte swallowed hard, squeezed my cock and licked the final drops, and came back up to me.
We kissed, hugged, cuddled, made some small talk.
We talked about paying for sex. About being paid for sex. “I have the fantasy of you paying me for sex,” I said.
“I would do that,” she said.
“I have an idea,” I said. “What if I pay you for sex. And then, what if you pay me?”
“I don’t want to be paid for sex!” she said.
I don’t remember how we got past this, how I persuaded her that it would be fun if we each paid one another. (Although Charlotte and I met on “Seeking Arrangement,” our “arrangement” was a short-lived one in which I paid her to stretch with me. We quickly evolved past that, and since then, our “arrangement” has been strictly non-commercial.) But I did convince her.
We talked a little about my writing process. I told her that once upon a time, I used to record voice memos about my dates for myself as I traveled home after them, to help me remember the details about which I wanted to write. I told her I would do that, this time. [I didn’t; instead, I wrote a little outline version of this post.]
I asked her to write her version of our date. “I don’t write well!” she protested. “Well, why don’t you make a voice recording about the night, then,” I said. I directed her to the Rashomon section of this blog, in which others have given their versions of me, of our time spent together. “I can do that,” she said.*
I left her all of my cash – six twenties – as I kissed her goodnight and left her.
Next time, she’ll be paying me.
* Charlotte did not keep her promise. This is a thing about Charlotte. She’s a good girl. She mostly does keep her promises. But the ones that make her a little uncomfortable? She has a habit of forgetting…. Our next date, she will memorialize with a voice recording. For sure.