We met on Tinder. (Tinder has not been particularly fruitful for me in some time. It feels as if the dynamics of it have changed as it has become more of a regular dating site and less of a hook-up site….)
She’s tiny. You know I love that. She does as I ask. You know I love that.
I selected her outfit, and we planned to meet at a bar. I arrived a few minutes early, and established that it was too crowded, too noisy, for our purposes. I waited outside for her to arrive. Moments after I messaged her that we were going elsewhere, she walked up, a full head shorter than me. Damn. She looked good. Better than her already-hot pictures. Short, dark hair. A fun-looking mouth. Curvy. Pretty. Cute. Sexy. We kissed hello – a brief, but tongue-ful kiss on the street. And we walked a few short blocks to a place I (thought I) hadn’t been previously, but had been curious about.
She’d been there, and so, it turns out, had I, but it was perfect: dark, crimson, quiet. We perched on bar stools and chatted. About dating, about our pasts, about our kids. (She has more than I do.) We talked about drinks – she had a Sapphire martini with an olive, up. I had an Oban. With an ice cube. We talked about how purists view drinks. About her recent dating history. About mine. And, we talked about just where we would go to cause her thighs to be pressed against my ears. (Though she sprinkles her speech liberally with curses, she seemed just a little uncomfortable at the ease with which the words “cock” and “cunt” spilled out of my mouth. Good. I like that.)
She was handsy in the bar. Grabbing my legs, pressing her knee against my cock. I instructed her to put her hands on her legs. On the outside of them. She thought I was rebuking her, and this thought was durable. But I wasn’t. I was establishing that her hands belonged to me, for the time being, that it mattered more where I wanted them to be than where she wanted them to be. And at the moment, it was important to me that they not be where she wanted them to be. (Very different, you’ll agree, from not wanting them on me.)
We walked out, and smoked a cigarette apiece before hailing a cab. (This was my penultimate cigarette before my current attempt to quit, which began the day after our date.)
In the cab, I asked her to open her thighs, to play with her pussy for me. Un-self-consciously, she did precisely as I asked, sliding her fingers under her ivory-colored tights, and into her cunt. The cab ride was ten minutes or so, and in no time, we had checked in, and found our way to the room.
When the door had closed, I gripped her throat tightly, and kissed her hard. I felt her hot, wet cunt through her tights, through her panties. I teased her just a bit before I had her stand, face the wall, spread her legs, and plant her hands on the wall. After which I teased her some more.
I had her turn, and did some more of that. She kept bringing her hands down, trying to touch me. I kept instructing her to raise them over her head.
I had her undress for me, led her to the bed, opened her legs, and began to feast. She had been waxed earlier in the day, and so was somewhat sensitive. I paid little/no attention. I licked, pressed, fingered her. At great length. “I want to kiss you,” (I thought) she said. “Later,” I said. She said it again, I thought. I told her to stop saying it. “Why don’t you want to kiss me?” she asked. “I do,” I said, “but I’m busy.” She wants me to tell her what to do, but she also wants. Time will tell if she can bend to my ways. At a certain point, she told me that she wouldn’t be able to come until after she had peed. I revisited our earlier conversation. Had I misheard everything? Had she been asking to pee? Had I been saying no to peeing? Because I wouldn’t, honestly, do that. I’m now hazy on just what the sequence was here, but she peed. She came back. And complained that I was still dressed. So I had her remove my belt, which I looped around her throat.
She kneeled between my legs and her hands crept up my thighs, nearing, grazing, my cock. Off came the khakis I wore, and she repeated herself. She hovered over my cock, swollen, hard, under my black boxer briefs. She breathed heavily on it. “You want something?” I asked. “I want to taste you,” she answered. “You want to taste what?” I asked. “I want to taste your cock,” she clarified.
This was good by me.
She removed my boxers, and my cock was in her mouth. I grabbed her hair – just long enough to get a good grip, and I guided her head up and down. I held her up. I pushed her down. And after a bit, I flipped her over, and resumed my meal, devouring her pussy once again. This time, she came, shuddering, hard. (She had told me she was “once and done” earlier in the evening. In this moment, I didn’t believe her. Her body felt to me as if it had more orgasms in it. But circumstances didn’t permit me to explore my hypothesis, as she had an early curfew.)
We switched places again, and my cock spent the next twenty minutes or so blissfully in her her mouth, between her lips, her tongue swirling, her head pumping, her lips gliding. She seemed to think she was doing something wrong, but I repeatedly reassured her that I was optimizing, maximizing. I had set an alarm to warn us ten minutes before her mandatory departure time, and shortly after the alarm went off, I came, filling her mouth with my cum.
We said some complimentary things to one another. We expressed the desire to do it all again. And more.
She had been quite clear that she really wanted to fuck me. I had been clear that fucking wasn’t on the menu last night. But I expect it will be the next time….