Meet Sarah

Sarah missed our date, as I described here. But. I didn’t spew venom her way, I didn’t act out my disappointment. I just told her, I was sad.

And … She showed up, a little more than two hours after her scheduled arrival.

She’s pale. She’s brunette. She wore one third of what I had asked – the black and red dress I showed you previously. She did not wear the panties I had asked her to wear. She did not wear the stockings I had asked her to wear. And, she didn’t show me – as I had asked – as she dressed.

For someone who wants very much to be a good girl, Sarah blew that on our first date.

We had a drink at a bar. Or rather, I had a drink. She had a water. We chatted. Not for long. Maybe fifteen minutes. And established that neither of us was, on the basis of the other’s appearance or demeanor, uninterested in proceeding.

I sent her up to the room, with instructions that she send me a photo of her thighs and cunt in the panties she did wear, and that she then lie on the bed, face down, legs spread, her dress hiked up over her ass.

There was a glitch, though. Her room key didn’t work. So I had my key recoded, and met her in the hallway. I opened the door and let us in. I grabbed a handful of her ass, spun her around, and asked her (commanded her, really) to sit in the chair and to take the photo I had asked her to take, and to send it to me. She did as instructed. Demurely opening her legs, holding her phone in front of her, and snapping this lovely photo.

“Now, take yourself to the bed, please, and lie as I had asked.”

She positioned herself face down, hiked up her dress, and opened her legs. She has a big tattoo – I didn’t discern what it was – on the outside of her left (I think) thigh. And I commenced the corporal part of her punishment, raining down blows inflected with the anger I felt at her having handled her absence/lateness differently than I might have liked. At a certain point, I removed her black panties, the better to bruise her generous ass.

After a bit of that, I flipped her over, and kissed her, for the first time. Then, I planted myself between her thighs and dove in.

Pussies are all different. Some are pungent. Some subtle. Some sweet. Some salty. Some musky. Some are unmistakable, some are less distinct. Sarah’s is… Well, I would say subtle, but even that would overstate its scent, its taste. Just a hint of sweetness. Little else.

When I leave Charlotte, I delight in how the memory of her is kept fresh for me by my beard. When Sarah and I parted, my beard offered no such souvenir.

I had decided that Sarah wasn’t coming. Not no way. Not no how. And, at least initially, it seemed this wasn’t going to be a hard thing to deny her: her body yielded little indication of how my ministrations were being received. The only hint of a response came when I introduced a second finger into her as I pressed a thumb against her asshole. It wasn’t a sigh. It wasn’t a buck, or a thrust. It was the slightest hint of … A flinch? Not quite. It registered as a sign of pleasure, not discomfort. But only just barely.

I lifted my head, caught her eyes (pretty, brown) and said, “Every ten seconds or so, please say a number between 1 – please stop – and 10 – don’t fucking stop.”

“Ok,” she said. “Eight.”

She was silent for a bit. I looked up quizzically. “Nine.”

Then “Seven.”

That was it for our little attempt at feedback. “Put your hands on my head,” I said. This worked better. She pushed. Pulled. Stroked. Finally I had a way to tell how my efforts were being received.

And, it seemed, they were being received well. Sarah’s thighs increasingly were trembling. I flicked lightly. Pressed firmly. I gave her a variety of sensations, and she took them, delightedly, I think.

Finally, I stood up and walked to the chair. “Come to me,” I instructed her. She stood before me, and I stopped her. “Now, please play with yourself a little.”

I stroked my cock as she touched her clit, her dress hiked up, clinging to her 34C breasts, straining against the dress directly without a bra in the way.

“Turn around,” I said. “Now remove your dress.” I was directing my own little burlesque show, teasing myself with the breasts I now knew were exposed, but still couldn’t see. “Keep playing with yourself,” I said. And stroked my cock through my jeans some more.

After a bit, I had Sarah kneel before me, and tease my cock with her hands. “Do you want something?” I asked.

She nodded.

“What?” I asked. 

“Your cock?” she asked.

“Tell me,” I said.

“I want your cock,” she said.

“Ask me for it,” I offered.

“Can I have your cock?”

“You may,” I answered, pedantically.

Together, we removed my jeans, and my black boxer briefs. Finally, my cock found its way into her mouth.

Earlier I wrote that all pussies are different. So, too, are all mouths.

Sarah’s mouth has a slight roughness to it. Her teeth are… present. Not in a bad way, but in a way that doesn’t let me forget that she has teeth.

One of the cocksucking fortunes I cut out, but didn’t include, on my recent date with Charlotte, read “Suck my dick like you’re trying to suck the numbers off my American Express card.” I didn’t include it because… Well, that’s just not how I want Charlotte to suck my dick.

It is, though, how I wanted Sarah to suck my dick, and she obliged. Her technique is aggressive, with lots of pressure, and lots of suction, interspersed with occasional licks, and more gentle sensations. I grabbed her hair and guided her, taking precisely the movements I craved.

After a bit, I had her stand her pretty body on an ottoman, lifting her cunt up to my eye level. “Play with yourself some more,” I said. A few minutes of that, and I tossed her back to the bed. I licked her clit some more, and then asked her to fetch her vibrator. Between her pink rabbit and my tongue, Sarah was now visibly approaching orgasm.

“You know you’re not coming tonight….”

“I had that feeling, yes.”

I took her closer and closer, but as her body began vibrating, I pulled back. I brought her closer and closer, but I wasn’t letting her have what she wanted. What she needed.

“Now stand up,” I said. “Get a towel and put it on that table.” I had her sit on a table, her legs open, and deployed the vibe and my tongue again. Until it was clear I had to stop. Or let her come. I chose “stop.” Natch.

After that, I bent her down over a chair, and resumed her spanking. And her whipping, with my belt. I extended the beating a bit by splashing some cold water on it a few times, buying maybe five extra minutes of pain, before, finally, she said, “Red!”

We had a brief discussion of the meaning of that “red” (“Stop what you’re doing and let’s take a little break,” she said is what she meant.)

I had her read a post of mine that got her wet. She chose Charlotte’s fifty orgasms – the precise opposite of this evening. And as she read, her body continued vibrating, even long after she stopped touching herself. 

I had her remove one of the obstacles to her orgasm – I had her photograph herself dressing. I had her suck my cock to completion, and sent her on her way. To a date with a guy she’s been seeing.

“You’re not going to come with him?!?”

“No danger of that,” she reassured me.

I just. Don’t. Get. That.

And she was gone. 

Postscript: Sarah didn’t come with me on this date. But, 24 hours later, after she satisfied all the various requirements on which she had stinted previously, I allowed her to come. And she allowed me to share her orgasm with you. So – all of us win!

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