Bri is brunette. She’s, I don’t know, maybe 5’5″. She’s cute, sexy, hot. Familiar. Though we’re separated by 30 years, we grew up in a similar milieu. I fooled around with her 30-year-ago analogue, thirty years ago. (Her name was “Eve.” Eve was hot. She still is, I’m sure. Eve and I had a torrid six-month-long thing. I have masturbated to the memory of Eve more than once in the last year Although I haven’t spoken to Eve since 1989, I would wager she’s done the same to me, given how hot shit was.)
Bri is a sugar baby. We met on Seeking. She stretches with me. She lives a couple hundred miles away, and she makes some money “sugar-ing.”
Bri is game. She’s fun. When I proposed buying her some clothes in which to stretch with me? She was all in. Some of those clothes have arrived. (Not the good ones.)
Some remain to arrive. (The better ones.)
I have a fantasy that there are still better ones to come. (There are.) I’m not ordering them yet, though…. I have the (paranoid?) fantasy (?) that Bri is collecting clothing from me, never to show me her pretty body in it….
Bri and I are discussing “submission,” and her relationship to it. She would have me believe that she’s interested in exploring. That she’s submissive or, if not submissive, interested in learning if she’s submissive.
Spoiler: she’s not submissive. I’m just. Not. Buying. It.
Bri may well like being tossed around in the bedroom. Mazal tov. Being tossed around ≠ submissive.
She’s playing with me. Toying with me. She wants me to imagine she might submit to me.
She won’t. She can’t.
That’s all.
Postscript: MAN would I love for her to prove me wrong.
Bri! What happened!
If I had to guess? I would say a lot of cocaine.