Tamora

I don’t deserve Tamora’s mouth on my cock. She’s experienced just about all of the worst I have to offer. In spite of our having had a number of really fun, hot dates, in spite of her being kind, funny, interesting, smart, in spite of my enjoying her company regardless of whether my cock is in her mouth or not, I’ve failed her.

I haven’t written as much about her as I might, which doesn’t really distinguish her. But it does hurt her. Which also, sadly, doesn’t distinguish her. It’s the nature of my muse that I wrote most about the women who are most complicated for me. I write about problems. So most of the sex she and I have had – fun, urgent, powerful, uncomplicated sex – hasn’t appeared on this blog.

Tamora has, on occasion, been a problem: she flakes on me, more often than not. But flakiness doesn’t get me writing.

In our most recent encounter, though, not only didn’t she flake on me, but I almost flaked on her. I didn’t. But I almost did. Which she didn’t know. Until I told her.

Which was unnecessary. What I told her, how I told her, was just dumb. Cruel.

The details aren’t important. What’s important is that I was a dick.

I’ve actually encountered Tamora many times outside of the context of her sucking my cock. Often, on the street. Once, in her place of employment. As a customer. We’ve talked about our families, about politics, about the world. She’s not particularly submissive, to me.

This isn’t remotely a problem. Though I write about dominance and submission, though most of the sex you read about here features me in a dominant role, I like pretty much all sex.

Tamora feels a magnetic pull to suck my cock. When such a pull materializes in a woman so attractive, and so skilled, I consider myself powerfully lucky. I can’t believe I managed to sabotage the good thing I had going with her. I hope, soon, her hunger for my cock drowns out the bitter taste I left in her mouth.

And, of course, I’m sorry.