I fucked up in my relationship with Tamora. I’ve fucked up lots of ways, in lots of relationships, over my life. Tamora? I’ve done it with her a few times. Once, I threatened (jokingly, but not funnily) to post her real name on here. Once, I stacked a date with her up against a date with another woman in a sort of double-booking, icky kind of way. And, early in the pandemic, I was insensitive to her in the wake of a debilitating, long case of COVID (and of long COVID?) she had. To be fair, at least that middle offense – the double-booking – she had sort of earned with her tendency toward last-minute cancellations. But still. It’s not me, and it was rude.
So she’s accustomed to my apologies. She’s heard a bunch of them. I like to imagine they’ve been good, heartfelt, legit apologies. Both because I genuinely have been/am sorry, and because I really like Tamora. As a person. As a conversational interlocutor. [We could well be just normal friends in normal life.] And, of course, I really really like Tamora as a possessor of the warmest, moistest, softest mouth this side of the Mississippi. And creamy, soft thighs and tits, to boot. It’s been years since her pretty, hungry, brown eyes looked up at me as I filled her mouth with my cock, or rolled back in her head as I collected orgasm after orgasm from her sensitive cunt. Or, arrived in my inbox as she got herself off for me.
At least the first set of those – the in-person ones – seem to be, now, approaching. [My cock is hard as I write this post. I just went back and re-read every word in the “Tamora” tag on this blog, and the thought of that mouth again at my service, of devouring that pussy again, is, um, turgidifying.] Recently, Tamora wrote me. Her subject line: “I think I’m ready.” The message: “I think I feel up to meeting again. If you’d like.”
“You think?” I responded. “I like that idea. What did you have in mind?” And, about ten hours later, I followed up with, “I mean, I have some ideas. But I feel a bit lost as to where you are.”
Tamora never has been all that enthusiastic a consumer of my dominance. Though she’s protested at my having described her as not submissive, she certainly isn’t especially submissive to me. She likes to give me what she likes to give me. She likes me to be happy with her. But she doesn’t particularly like (or hasn’t particularly liked) when I tell her explicitly what to do. ESPECIALLY if we’re not together, in the same space. And I didn’t know if she meant, “Let’s get together for a drink,” or “let’s get together for a romp” or something else….
“I’m really not sure,” she replied. “I’d love to come as much as you make me.” [I thrilled at reading that.] “And I’d love to suck your cock.” [Well, now, that’s exciting!] But I’m not sure I can handle you being too domineering.”
Domineering?!?!? Did she mean that? Did she really mean dominant? I googled “domineering.”
I hope she didn’t mean domineering. I really don’t think of myself as domineering. Dominant? Sure. Domineering? Nah. [Who am I to argue, though? If that’s how she sees me, that’s how she sees me. But I hope to fix that. Regardless, I can handle being neither too domineering nor too dominant with her, and that will be my goal.]
I can’t fucking wait to feel her all again. She feels so fucking good. My memory of her is dated, but fresh, vivid. Insh’allah, that memory will be refreshed soon enough.
Sadly, it will be at least ten days. Maybe more. But soon enough…. And, in the meantime, I am hopeful that she might choose to flood my inbox with some visual and auditory reminders of her – her body, and her pleasure. I would love to receive as much as she would love to send. And, I would love to share with you as much as she would love me to share with you.
But those are hopes, not requests, and certainly not demands.
In the meantime, the planning commences.
Postscript: This all ended really badly. More details to come.
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