Fleshbot

My trainer wore a miniskirt and boots to our session. She knew exactly what she was doing.

I know what I want. And I ask nicely.

A belt between your teeth, my tongue between your thighs, and a tap-tap-tap safe signal we both hope you won’t use.

A hotel room, a pillowcase, a tie, a belt, and a dress that doesn’t survive the evening.

A late-night conversation that didn’t end nearly soon enough.

She rejected my choreography, and I was grateful. Then I pushed her against a roll-down gate and listened to my cock instead of my brain.

A polite request, or several.

As the plane descends into L.A., I catalog everything I know about her — and everything I don’t yet.

I tell her what I want; she gives it to me. Thousands of miles away.

Blindfolded, on her knees, she hadn’t yet seen or tasted or touched my cock. But she could hear how hard I was.