Tiny Serena

Serena was to meet me after her work finished at eight.

I was a little confused about the location. I reserved a hotel ten minutes away by mistake. I checked into the hotel at seven, showered, and went to meet her – after laying out condoms (just in case – I didn’t, actually, expect to fuck her), and a couple of small items of clothing I had bought her – a sexy short summer dress, and a hot pair of tiny boy shorts.

I traveled the mile to where she worked, found a (shitty) bar around the corner, and stationed myself toward the back. The guy to my left smelled disconcertingly like he had soiled his pants. The soundtrack was .38 special, Billy Joel, and A-ha! He mangled all the lyrics – the most notable mangling was confusingly wrong (“Take me on!”).

I texted Serena the location and said, when you arrive, position yourself on a stool by the window, far from me.

I had instructed her to wear a dress, something she’d not worn to work, and just after eight, she texted me: “I’m in a fight.”

I thought to myself, oh shit. She’s going to be late.

Immediately after, she followed with a second text: “With my dress.”

Serena isn’t just hot/sexy/sweet/cute/smart. She’s funny.

I told her it was more important that she arrive soon than that she wear the dress, and fifteen minutes later, she entered, having successfully won the battle with her very sexy, very slinky dress. Serena is smoking hot – her smile is slightly sad, but powerfully sweet. Her eyes, bright, are hazel, and big. Her nose reads as Jewish in New York (which is my favorite kind of nose), but I suspect where she’s from, it’s called aguileña. Whatever. It’s fucking hot.

She positioned herself on a stool, not by the window (as instructed), but at the other end of the bar – still acceptably far from me, so, no harm, no foul.

I moved, taking my drink from the bar to a table where I had a better view of her pretty, little, lithe, curvy body.

Turn and face me, I said, by text. She turned a bit. More, I wrote. Face me. Uncross your legs.

Her dress was long (or, rather, as long as a dress worn by a woman who’s barely five feet tall can be) and sexy, with a high slit. As she opened her legs and faced me, I saw she was wearing sexy black pantyhose.

So much for my plan to have her remove her panties in the bar.

We texted a bit more. I sent her to the bathroom and told her to send me a video, showing me her cunt in her panties and hose, and her ass, as well.

She stood and walked away from me, to the (no doubt icky) bathroom. Moments later, as the video loaded, I texted, come sit at the chair closest to me when you return. She emerged from the bathroom, blushing, and sat, not at the chair closest to me, but at the table closest to me. I motioned her over, and she joined me. Following directions outside the bedroom: not Serena’s strongest suit. But, intriguingly, I seem not to care.

“My drink is terrible,” she told me. It was not a good bar. Did I mention that?

We chatted for a few minutes about our days. I told her the hotel was a mile away, that we would take a cab. I told her to touch herself in the cab, not to come, but to feel good. Soon, we were in the elevator – with one other person, alas – on our way up to the 26th floor.

We let ourselves into the room, and I kissed her hard. I went to close the door, and realized I lacked the skills to cause the deadbolt not to be engaged. The door simply wouldn’t close. I called the hotel desk, asked for someone to come up and fix the door, and directed Serena to the bathroom, where, I said, she should start playing with herself with the wand, and filling my phone with videos. (I’ve been asking her for porn for weeks. In spite of having told me she loves making porn, she’s given me precious little.)

Again, I said, don’t come.

It took fifteen minutes and three calls to the desk before a mechanic arrived to demonstrate how I could have fixed the latch myself fifteen minutes and three calls ago by, um, turning the doorknob in the opposite direction. I have a penis, but not, apparently, some of the problem-solving skills that many attribute to penis-possessors.

By the time the mechanic arrived, I had moved Serena from the bathroom to the floor behind the bed, and had had her change out of the dress, the pantyhose, and her red thong, into the grey boyshorts I’d gotten her. I had laid out a towel for her. Topless, she sat down and continued with the wand, out of view of the door where the mechanic and I discussed the doorknob.

Before this portion of the evening had ended, there were ten videos, totaling fifteen or eighteen minutes, scorching my phone.

With the door finally closed, and privacy assured, I tossed Serena, now wearing the boy shorts and nothing else, onto the bed. I took the wand and finally, finally, allowed her her first orgasm (of many) of the evening.

Earlier, we had talked about jealousy, about how, magically, with her, I seem, at least for the time being, to be exempt from it. About how she enjoys no such liberation with me. She had read these two posts about Milica and this one about Charlotte earlier in the day, and had confessed that the surge of jealousy she felt almost caused her to cancel our date.

Don’t read my blog! I said.

I’ve had this problem before, with Charlotte, with Sofia, with V, with others.

Nobody likes to read accounts of my dates with others – especially when so many of them sound so similar to my dates with them. I understand this. It’s a hazard of dating me.

Once again, the two of us spent hours (not six, this time, but four) cavorting on a bed. Hours with our mouths between the other’s thighs. Hours with the wand extracting maximum pleasure. Hours alternating between torrid sex and playful laughing conversation. We get along easily. Our bodies work together, preternaturally. Serena wanted my shirt on as long as possible. A sky blue button-down from Express, with a couple of soy sauce stains. She thought it was sexy. I thought it was time to throw it out. Which I did, the next day. We didn’t use the condoms.

Sometime after one, sated, exhausted, I kissed her one last time and made my way home, leaving her to crash in the bed and to read The Sexual Life of Catherine M. and Jealousy by Catherine Millet, which I sent her on her phone, as well as to listen to this interview with Aella (by the complicated, flawed, brilliant, Lex Fridman), all of which we had discussed in the course of the evening.

I’ll see her again soon. I can’t wait.

One comment

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.