I asked Charlotte to make me a list of memorable events/fun events/firsts with me. I don’t remember the context in which I asked – maybe it was after I slapped her hard across the face on a busy public street (and she laughed uncontrollably, thankfully).
Charlotte is good at many things. Pleasing me. Sucking my cock. Having orgasms quickly. Doing as I say in the moment. Being a good girl. Being game for just about anything. Being beautiful/hot/sexy/cute. Being open and vulnerable. Honesty.
But writing on command for me? Not so much.
Her first stab was (lightly edited) as follows:
- Slapping me on the street in public [I haven’t written about this, but I did do this – I hit her playfully, hard, on a busy street]
- My first sex party
- Making me come 50 times in one night in that huge hotel room.
- Teaching me a new language
- Our first date
- My first threesome
- Crawling around for you
- Making me run around doing errands for you
Not a terrible list. Turns out, her mistake was her last line: “This is what I have so far, will add more. There’s a lot.”
That established an expectation on my end. And this is one of those things Charlotte doesn’t excel at. Or rather, she excels at establishing expectations; she doesn’t always excel at fulfilling them. And this was one of those cases where it was hard for her to deliver on her promise.
That list was followed by over two weeks of repeated promises to provide more items on the list, but not a single item’s being added.
Until our recent date.
Soon after Charlotte entered the room, I took an orgasm from her wet, willing pussy with my fingers. It took less than a minute. “That’s your last orgasm until you finish your list for me.”
Some time passed. She sucked my cock. She sucked my cock some more. I fucked her, briefly. (“You’re not having an orgasm, though….”)
I sent her off to work on her list. When she returned, it was clear she had spent precisely thirty seconds working on it:
- The first time you stepped on me in your shoes
- First time going to a sex hotel
I looked at her.
“What?” she said. “Not enough?”
“Um, no,” I said.
I sipped a scotch. Smoked a cigarette. (I’m still trying to quit. Having now shed 50 pounds, it’s my next project. I’ve definitely cut down, with the help of bupropion, but tomorrow I’ll start varenicline (Chantix). The thing about Chantix is that it makes me feel… bad. In addition to filling my sleep with vivid, often disturbing dreams, it makes my stomach feel… weird… and gives me perpetually bad breath. So I hate it. And, though I’m not a doctor, and know nothing about the mechanism by which it works, it seems to work on my nicotine receptors, so mostly what it does is make cigarettes unpleasant. It doesn’t, though, do anything to the underlying hunger for soothing that leads to smoking, so when I’m on Chantix, all that happens is I lose a key coping/self-soothing strategy. No worries: I have lots of strategies, and sometimes, that’s all I need – a good kick in the pants – and once I stop, I stop. I have, previously, stopped using Chantix for as long as two years. So I’m game. It just sucks.
So I sat, drinking my Ardbeg, smoking my American Spirit, watching as Charlotte typed on her phone. Some minutes passed. We didn’t have long. I would have imagined (hoped) Charlotte would’ve come a dozen or more times by this point, instead of the single, solitary, lonely orgasm she had had.
Finally, finally, she pressed send on the remainder of her list:
- Doing sex work (stretching) <– Reminder: that’s how we met, nearly a year ago
- Drinking scotch and liking it
- First time giving someone a QR code to read about me in a bar [I suggested this one]
- First time coming sitting at a bar [I suggested this one, too – Charlotte clarified she previously had come on a bar]
At this point in her writing of the list, she objected: “I want to come up with them – when you do, it makes me feel like a secretary.”
“Secretaries are hot,” I said. Correctly.
“But I’m not a secretary,” she said. Correctly.
- First time giving someone my panties in public
“Good girl,” I said. “Is there something you want from me, now?”
“I can’t talk dirty!” she said.
“Ok,” I said, and continued sipping.
We had some back and forth. Some laughing. As my tongue found its way to her clit. (“I want your tongue on my clit!” she said, at length. I placed my tongue, still, on her clit. “Like this?” I said.)
Anyway – there were, in our remaining twenty minutes or so, half a dozen or more orgasms. She clarified (I asked) that she prefers if I don’t pause when she comes. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. Lately, I have been more, because lately, her pussy has been pushing me away more when she comes. “I want you to keep going, like you don’t care if I come or not.”
And then, it was time for us to go. I mismanaged the end here. Charlotte had told me, previously, that she needs
twenty minutes or so time to unwind at the tail end of our dates. I had failed to assimilate, to register, this. I only allowed five minutes. When she reminded me again, I adjusted my timetable a bit. (I was able to, thankfully.)
I apologized for having had to be told twice. I won’t require a third telling.