“I’ve been thinking about your lips, about how it would feel for my cock to slide along them, between them.”
She responds, in moments, with a photo of her luscious, pouting lips.
Some hours pass. I write, “I’m haunted by the thought of my hands, between your legs, cupping your ass, pressing the meat of my palm against your cunt.”
Moments later, a picture of her crotch, in black lace panties, jeans around her thighs, appears.
“I want to feel your ass, to pound against it.”
Somehow, she contorts herself, and sends me a picture of her magnificent, heart-shaped ass, as she’s bending over.
“Tomorrow, I want to pick your clothes.”
“I’d like that,” she replies. And when she’s home, she sends me my choices – various thongs, boyshorts, and bikini briefs; a few bras; a couple of skirts, and jeans; some tops; some shoes.
I e-mail her my selections.
In the morning, I get a series of shots – first, her, nude, wet, stepping out of the shower. Then, her ass in the boyshorts I picked, resplendent. Then, her breasts bulging out of the skimpy bra I chose. Then, straining against the pastel cotton top. Finally, in the skirt and shoes I picked, her legs and feet, long, slender, delicious.
“Thank you for making my morning so hot,” she writes.
I send her my own pictures. I’ll never stop feeling self-conscious when sending pictures of my eyes, my chest, my biceps. I’m trim, fit, muscular. But I have a history – first, of being scrawny, then, of being fat. There was never a “fit” stage in between. But now, in my 40s, I’m fit, lean. I look good, but I have vestigial shame.
She combats that shame, that embarrassment: every photo elicits effusion: “GAWD! You’re hot.” “I’m dripping.” “Fuck!”
More than anything, her responsiveness is what excites me. Sure, she’s hot – her hair is curly, red. Her lips full, big. Her face, freckled. Her breasts, round, full. Her ass, meaty, grabbable, not at all fat. Her thighs, her legs, substantial but muscular.
I don’t even have to ask for her to respond: if I like something, she delivers it. If I want something, she gives it to me.
I worry sometimes that I’m taking advantage of her, that, in the words of a friend, I’m a predator. But she seems to so enjoy it. It seems, genuinely, that we both thrive in this relationship.
I know we can never meet, that my cock is forever destined to dance across her lips only in my, in her fantasies. But I think it’s better that way.