Is Julie wet?

Our sessions are – in contrast to nearly every other stretching or fitness session I have – utterly professional. Julie limits (and I go along with this) conversation to instructions: “Step back into downward dog,” she says, as my screen fills itself with her perfect, round ass, her leggings hugging her labia, or her shorts, her ass. I crane my neck as I execute her instructions, countering at least some of the relaxation in the pose both with my neck’s effort and my cock’s response.

“Take yourself into child’s pose,” she directs, in the familiar locution and tone of a Pilates or yoga instructor. And my screen fills even more, her cunt even more defined, her ass even larger – and my cock aching even more.

The only hint I have that she likes this all – beyond the fact that she keeps doing it – is her texts. In her texts, she gives hints. Hints that her studious attentiveness to angles, to distance, to position, are informed not just by fitness goals, but also by… some combination of a desire to give me what I want (to be a good girl) and, related, to collect at least a modicum of her own excitement, her own wetness, at this all.

She’s said only that I have made her wet. Not told me when. Not told me how. But I have a sense.

My sense?

Julie knows the power her body wields over those of us who are privileged enough to be inches behind her as she folds over her hips, her ass jutting out. She knows that a straight man with a pulse can’t help but feel that power in his groin. And? And?

She likes it.

She likes feeling my eyes burning a hole in the leggings she’s told me have “no undies” beneath them.

She likes knowing that as hard as it is for me to hold the poses into which she directs me, it’s ten times harder for me not to interrupt her instructions with my fantasies – fantasies that involve her ass, her cunt, her breasts, her mouth, and my mouth, my hands, my cock.

She likes knowing that my masturbatory fantasies are enriched (though not yet, truly, fed) by the stellar views she so assiduously provides me.

She likes knowing the pleasure I take in each new form-fitting outfit in which she displays herself to me.

And she really likes reading the words I write about her, that she inspires me to write about her.

And “likes,” I have the sense, isn’t quite right.

I think – I think (but I most definitely do not know) – that in fact, all this affects her cunt in ways not dissimilar from the ways it does my cock. That when she hastily disconnects from me at the end of our session, at least a part of her haste derives from the conflict she feels between wanting to be a good girl – the kind of girl who is professional, boundaried, and distant – and wanting to be my good girl. A good girl whose pussy responds powerfully to the appreciation she evokes in me, to the power she holds – and, even more, to the compliance she offers.

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