Leyla’s dreams

  1. Had a wet dream about stretching naked in front of you.
  2. Wet dream about actually being a pussy cam girl for you lol.

Leyla is fun.

Leyla likes me.

Leyla has a boyfriend.

He is uncomfortable – but not prohibitively so – with Leyla’s stretching with me. Which she has done for months. In increasingly revealing outfits. Most recently, for example, in this:

And this:

And this:

Leyla wants to be used. Degraded. She struggles to attain this from the men boys she dates.

I understand this. I struggle to use, to degrade, women I care about. I’ve used my life as N to explore the knife edge between affection and aggression, between care and ruthlessness, between use and gratification. The hottest sex is ruthless. Those of us who aren’t sociopaths find it challenging to be properly ruthless with those about whom we care.

Sex. Is. Complicated.

Leyla’s fantasies have three parts, best I can tell.

1. The part where she is a “bad” girl, displaying her naughty bits. And enjoying it.

2. The part where she is a “good” girl, giving me what I want.

3. The part where she is a powerful girl, exercising power over me, over my cock. And where she is creating a secret, unknown to her boyfriend, but capable of threatening him, of hurting him.

There’s a fourth part, one that’s especially complex involving money. In her wet dreams, I pay her. To see her cunt. To see her come.

(I once – as I have written – dated a woman whose orgasms were made possible by the exchange of money: she couldn’t come unless she felt she was a whore. As a “good girl,” orgasms eluded her. As a whore? They were plentiful.)

Leyla wants me to (want to) see her naughty bits. That was dream one. She also wants to give me what (she knows) I want. That was dream two. Plus money.

I don’t, as I’ve told her, particularly want to see her naughty bits. Unless they are before me. In person.

I mean sure, as we stretched tonight, her pussy lips manifestly visible through her sheer black panties, I was a happy man. But. I honestly like seeing her thick thighs, her round ass, in shorts, at least as much as I like seeing all that, plus labia, through her panties.

And she knows – she knows – that more than anything, what I want to see is her fingers tracing those lips around the outside of her panties, as she teases herself, makes herself wet, aching, throbbing, for me. As she brings herself close to the edge of orgasm. As she crosses that edge, and comes, shuddering, hard, for me, and collapses in a pool of her own juices.

She also knows, though, that this particular fantasy – in which (she hasn’t said this, but I know it’s true) I stroke my cock as I watch, bringing myself to, and over, that very same edge – is one that, in me, features one crucial difference:

In my fantasy, the currency she receives is my cum, my pleasure, my gratification, and yes, to be sure, my (these?) words. The money? Not a part of that particular fantasy.

For me. In fact, the opposite: I wouldn’t, I won’t, pay for that particular privilege. If she doesn’t give me her orgasm freely, if the currency – of cum, pleasure, and words – that I have to offer doesn’t suffice? Well, then, I’m just. Not. Interested.

Time will tell with Leyla.

But my money says that, within a week or three, Leyla and I will stretch. Leyla will have brought herself right to the edge of orgasm before our session. And, throughout our session, I will direct her to tease herself, to keep herself on that edge. For my, for our, pleasure. And then, when our stretching session ends, I will ask Leyla if she would like to come for me.

Her answer?

I don’t dare to predict.

I do, though, dare to imagine.

What do you think?

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