Celeste looks innocent, demure. Her red hair is lustrous. Her eyes (brown? green? hazel? these virtual-only relationships are just a bitch on eye color), bright and eager. To meet her, I would guess, “Midwestern cowgirl.”
I don’t know much. In fact, the most valuable thing I do know is precisely how little I know.
What I do know about Celeste is limited to a few facts:
- She works at Starbucks, in addition to another, real, challenging job.
- Her ass (included below for your handy reference) is a thing of magnificent beauty.
- There’s a mismatch between how she presents, visually, and her seeming comfort with my leering objectification of her pretty body.
- From nearly the start, she generously was comfortable with my recording – and jerking off to – our stretching sessions.
- She didn’t like the first thing I wrote about her. With good reason.
Sometimes, I find myself compelled to write. Most of what I write on this blog emerges from some sort of compulsion. Often, though, I find myself longing to write. Some of what I write here falls into that category. This previous post, which I am not – at least for the moment – sharing with you, falls into that category.
See, I wanted to write about Celeste because of my appreciation for her, my gratitude for her, and my ardor for her. She gave me the things I value most in a stretching partner in this current iteration – she lets me choose her clothes. She angles herself perfectly for me, so my views are unparallelled. She set up two cameras for me, so I can see her from front and back as she bends over, as she opens her legs in a straddle, as she opens her chest. And, from the very start, she let me record her (as I wrote above).
So, naturally, I wanted to reward her with words because, well, words are my currency. And Celeste is in many ways a perfect stretching partner.
Alas: when I write because I want to write, as opposed to when I need to write, it’s almost always a mistake. My words contradict my feelings. Or they paint a pale shadow of them. I describe poorly, and my focus lands in the wrong place. Sometimes, painfully.
That’s what happened in this case.
I wanted to write about Celeste, but I didn’t need to. [N.b., my needing, or not needing, to write, is driven more by conflict than by ardor.]
Lucky for me, lucky for you, now I need to. 😉
I wanted to write because she’s beautiful, smart, interesting, hot, and gives me exactly what I want. I didn’t need to write because…. she didn’t present me with a single obstacle. Her willingness – welcome, exciting even – didn’t create the tension that I use writing to address. This isn’t a complaint; it’s an observation about what leads me to write. When a woman simply gives herself to me, it makes my cock hard, but it doesn’t always make my fingers fly on the keyboard.
She’s beautiful – red-haired, fair skin, a body that is deliciously curvy and looks infinitely spankable, squeezeable, without having an ounce of unnecessary fat. (But having just enough not to be, to my mind, “lean.”) In other words, fucking delicious.
In one of our early sessions, she greeted me in a black bikini. She thought the bikini was hot because of a transparent panel on the top.
She was wrong.
The bikini was hot because her ass.
She’s sweet, friendly, nice. I like talking with her – conversation is natural, and she’s intelligent, interesting, and unguarded. She’ll answer most any question I ask, it seems, and she has thoughtful perspectives. And she has the sweetest, cutest, most improbable “mm-hmmm.” It comes, mostly, in response to my praise: I tell her I want to lick her sweet pussy as she opens her legs for/with me. “Mm-hmmm.” I praise her ass as she touches her toes for/with me. “Mm-hmmm.” I’m tempted to try to isolate one instance in one of my recordings of her and play it for you here, for your auditory delectation.
I’m not alone in having commented on this verbal tic. She tells me her co-workers have mentioned it, too.
I’m not sure what it means.
Does it mean, “I know”?
Does it mean, “Damn straight”?
Does it mean, “Shhhhhhh”?
Does it mean, “Perv!”?
Does it mean, “Don’t make me blush!”
I don’t know. But I’ll tell you this. When she says, “Mm-hmm,” it makes my cock just a little bit harder. Which is impressive, given where it starts with Celeste.
After my first miss in writing about her, I discovered a little motivation to write. She complained – correctly – that my writing about her wasn’t particularly flattering. She introduced just a little… fear?… into my perception of her. Was I losing her? Would she not stretch with me again? I wasn’t exactly desperate, but I was anxious. I didn’t want to hurt, or disappoint, or let down. And, I wanted my writing to make her cunt wet. I wanted to make her cunt ache. And, I wanted her to keep feeding my hungry cock.
And so, some words, these words, did, in fact, flow.
I fear I still haven’t done her justice, that I won’t right now. But perhaps I can let you in to a little of the sensation flowing between my cock and my mind as I write this, as I anticipate seeing her later today:
I am excited. I asked her to wear the capri-length leggings she wore in our first or second session. Though I write a lot, words fail me when it comes to describing just how fucking phenomenal her ass looked in them, how haunted I’ve been by the memory of them. I didn’t record her then – I didn’t yet have permission, I think. Or maybe I did have permission but I fucked it up and lost it? Anyway, I don’t have her ass in those leggings preserved for all time. But I. Fucking. Need. It.
I need to a) watch her bend over in those leggings, and then, b) stroke my cock until I come just minutes after.
In just a few hours, I will.