Charlotte does as instructed, almost without fail. Before our most recent tryst, we discussed what she would wear. “Tomorrow, please wear panties,” I told her. (She doesn’t, usually.) “And a dress if you’re not too cold. If you are too cold, my preference would be blue jeans (not black). Is that possible?”

I wrote that as she was edging for me. Before she responded to my question, she sent five minutes of her edging, 25 seconds on, 5 seconds off, for me.


[I just fucking love hearing Charlotte mewl with need as a date approaches.]

Then, “I only own black jeans.” While I was listening to her need, she continued, “I was going to wear a dress.”

“Dress is good,” I wrote. “I promise you will come tomorrow.”

“I really really want to.”

We continued our chat for a few minutes. And then, Charlotte wrote: “You never want what I’m wearing to be a surprise. Why?”

I gave her two reasons:

  1. Anticipation is, for me, better than surprise.” This is true, and/but I think it’s about half the story on this half of my motivation. Not only is anticipation better than surprise, but in the land of anticipation, there’s no possibility of disappointment, no possibility of anything other than perfection, than perfect compliance with my known (and unknown) longings. All this is further codified by my second reason ….
  2. “I like power, control. I like when you allow me to decide things. Every decision you give me makes my cock harder.”

“Should I give you more control?” she asked, in response.

I gave her some options. I could choose clothes she buys for herself. I could choose books, magazines, movies.

And then, we went to bed, anticipating our date the next day….

And then, the next day…

Charlotte waited as instructed. I found her, demure in her dress, her face masked. I beckoned her toward me and, together, we walked the very few steps to privacy. I closed the door. Instructed her to sit. Instructed her to open her legs for me, to lift up her dress, so that I could see her panties.

I poured us both drinks, and we clinked glasses. After my first sip, I bent down to kiss her in her chair, and slipped a finger into her panties, into her cunt. She was dripping.

I slipped her panties off, and grabbed some rope. Gently, slowly, I affixed her ankles to the legs of the chair, immobilizing her bottom half. I slid my fingers into her cunt, kissed her pretty mouth again. I blindfolded her. I kneeled before her, and tasted her cunt for the first time in way too long.

I wrote that last section before the date. I was beginning to plan, in my mind, what I would do with, to, Charlotte. In my fantasy, I was going to collect dozens of orgasms from her. First, in the setting to which I had summoned her. And then, in a cab. I was going to take her home, and have her come for me in the back seat the whole way.

In the event? Charlotte fucked up. She squandered the dozens of orgasms she might have had at my fingers, my tongue, my toys, her fingers.

I had asked two things of her: show me as you dress, and, wear panties.

On the day of, she did neither.

Here are two excerpts from our communication:

My plans were upended. Charlotte was not going to come.

Lately, Charlotte has been seeing D. He gives her much of what she craves: he is available. He cuddles with her. Extended-ly. He praises her, compliments her, feeds her all sorts of things she values. FFS, after their second date, he told her he loved her. Charlotte doesn’t love D. Charlotte isn’t particularly attracted to D. D has gotten her off precisely one time. And none since she offered him an extended tutorial on how to get her off.

I offer Charlotte far less, in many ways. But there’s one, or maybe two, things I have that he lacks. First, Charlotte is attracted to me. I’m modest. I make no objective claims about my hotness. But it’s true that women often tell me there’s something about my eyes, my gaze, that is… irresistible? Compelling? Overwhelming? And…. I can make Charlotte come in 30 seconds with one finger. Or 20, with my tongue. And I can do either indefinitely, infinitely. This, apparently, distinguishes me.

On this night, though, Charlotte wasn’t going to come.

So the paragraph above is close to what happened. Minus the panties. And plus a bit (but not too much) of spanking.

Once I had tied her ankles to the chair…

… we began the tease. “Play with yourself. Bring yourself close to orgasm,” I said. She did as instructed. Watching Charlotte slide a finger between her thick thighs, into her wet, redolent cunt? FUCK. I should say: from the moment I greeted her, I (imagined?) I could smell Charlotte’s sweet, musky scent. As, I imagined, could every person she has been within ten feet of all day. But actually, I realized, this wasn’t true: what I could smell wasn’t Charlotte’s cunt; it was an amalgam of our anticipation. Charlotte’s cunt slick with anticipation for what was about to come – and for what wasn’t. And my nose, sensitive, primed, for Charlotte’s sweet pussy. And I should further add: when Charlotte read this, she thought I was somehow suggesting that her pussy smells too much, too strong. Um, no. Not. At. All. What I mean is that it felt as if there was a sort of olfactory connection between her cunt and my nose.

“Now stop,” I said.

We repeated this a few times. I walked around behind her. Pulled her head back by her shoulder-length, brown/black hair. Kissed her. Hard.

I kneeled before her, licked my thumb, and pressed it against her swollen clit. It wasn’t a minute before I pulled my thumb away, avoiding the imminent orgasm. I repeated this a few times. I slid a finger, two fingers, from my left hand, into her dripping cunt as my right thumb toyed with her clit.

Charlotte’s orgasms are so fucking accessible. I find it hard NOT to make her come. But I didn’t. And she didn’t.

We drank. We talked. She played with herself. I admired her pretty face, her pretty body. I played with her. I untied her, looped a leash around her inviting throat and yanked her toward me. I fed her pretty mouth my cock. I took control of her head, taking from it precisely the sensations I craved. “Let me feel your talented tongue,” I said, holding her head at the tip of my cock. I gripped her lustrous hair and yanked her back. I gripped her skull and pulled her forward. I made her maintain eye contact. I groaned, moaned, cursed. Finally, I let my cum fly, deep in her throat.

We continued our conversation. I fingered her a bit more. We drank a bit more. And I sent her home, un-sated.

I will see her soon. And before that, I will see every instance of clothes leaving her body. Every instance of clothes being put on. I explained to her that I wasn’t cruel, that orgasms aren’t inaccessible, but that they must be EARNED.

I think she gets that, now.

I hope she gets that now.

If not? She’s going to find our next date VERY frustrating….

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