Nothing is ever perfect. No one is ever perfect. Or, at least, not often. On this particular Friday, though, perfection was Cleo, and Cleo was perfection. There was a tiny bit of imperfection in the whole thing, but as you’ll see at the end of the post, the imperfection was mine. The error was mine. The fault was mine. Cleo performed flawlessly. She presented herself flawlessly. She presented her flawless self flawlessly.
You saw the instructions. She was my model. I intended to see her, to see dozens, if not hundreds, of photos of her in all her lingerie. As the appointed time approached, I got excited. I anticipated what I knew was going to be happening in her apartment for the next hour, and what I knew was going to be flooding my Telegram not too long thereafter. I had hopes in the moment that, in fact, the photos would come to me in real time as she snapped them. That, in and of itself, would have been hot. But what happened was, at the end of the hour, after a tantalizing delay, my phone exploded with two hundred (yes, two hundred!) photos of Cleo in four different sets of spectacular lingerie.
In each pair, she generously shared with me her body, her small breasts, her strong thighs, her delicious cunt, her tiny waist, her flaring hips, her round ass, her pale skin, her bright eyes, her needy, hungry, sad, but happy smile.
First, what I take to be the most elaborate set of lingerie she owns – at least, that was her instruction. A pale blue set, a thong, with an elaborately brocaded bra with gold leafing. I couldn’t see her nipples through the bra. I couldn’t see her cunt through the panties. But they set her flesh off so spectacularly, and she posed generously, giving me every angle imaginable – close-ups of her lustrous brown hair draped over a breast; her cunt, as she kneeled, thighs apart, the panties obscuring what I longed to devour; her ass, and pussy, the thong riding up as the fabric just barely encased her pussy’s lips. Damn.
Then, the next set: a black, strappy, lacy, sheer, tonga set. Again: every angle teased me, tortured me, with what I couldn’t (yet) touch (but would, very, very soon – but nowhere near soon enough). The bra had two x’s across her chest, crying out to be torn off. The panties arced above the curves of her cheeks, framing that perfect ass delectably. And, in a few shots, she looked at me, her pretty, hungry face turned over her shoulder looking almost wary – as in, “I’m sharing this with you. Is it safe?”
Next up – a lacy white bralette and tonga combination. The bralette came down her chest, to her abdomen. This set, she gave me a couple of tantalizing close-ups of her cunt. FUCK me. Now.
And then, last, my favorite. A sheer, greyish purple boyshorts and bra set, lacy, sheer. This was the only set through which I could see her dark areolae, and this set included my two favorite shots: one, a close-up of her left breast, a little pink bow in the place where her cleavage would be if her breasts were bigger; and the other, a close-up of her ass on her ankles as she kneeled on her bed, the curve maddeningly out of reach, only two-dimensional, where I craved three.
A boy couldn’t really ask for much more. It was sheer perfection, and the knowledge that only a few days later I would have that body to do with as I pleased in person, could not have made my cock harder or my heart happier.