Celeste, coming slowly into focus

In my first post about Celeste – which you haven’t seen, and may never see – I made some mistakes. One of those mistakes was presuming some things about her from my side of the Zoom interactions we had. I used the word “enured” (or “inured” – I couldn’t quite tell which was more correct) to characterize her reaction to my gaze, to my compliments, to my objectification of her remarkable, muscular, fleshy, body. I suggested that my words somehow almost fell off her, like water off a duck’s back. Apparently, this is incorrect.

We were scheduled to meet three times in rapid succession. The first, she greeted me in black boyshorts and a bra/bikini top. And, for my viewing delectation, she had arranged her computer and her phone to give me twin views of her during our time together. This was incredibly generous. And, something I’ve learned: two screens is GREAT, but only when I also have two screens set up. That way, I can have one screen of mine devoted to one of hers, and another, devoted to the other. I get twin views. When I have only one screen? Meh. Two just means we end up with a Zoom situation of THREE screens in gallery view. Two of her, one of me. And that? That’s not good motivation. It’s just another Zoom session. So. Live and learn.

Our second scheduled session (not ever, just in this succession of three), Celeste simply didn’t show. Not a word. In this crazy land of commercial sex and SeekingArrangement and all that, no-shows aren’t common. Women flake all the time. They scam. They try to scam. I had no fear of that with Celeste. Honestly, I was actually just concerned. She communicates clearly and consistently, and so surely, there was a reason she wasn’t turning up.

I didn’t like it, of course: I want to be communicated with, treated respectfully. (And this – no-call/no-show – isn’t something I believe I’ve ever done in my life.) In general, a no-call/no-show is, in my book, grounds for “canceling.” In this case, I didn’t feel the insult, or the anger. “Canceling” didn’t enter my mind. Rather, I felt concern and, when she told me what had happened, how she’d forgotten, my forgiveness was triggered. Or, if not exactly forgiveness (what she told me didn’t change my sense that she should have called, she perfectly well could have called, that I wasn’t the priority I would have preferred to be in that moment), a sort of warm tolerance. I somehow knew it wouldn’t happen again.

It hasn’t. And it won’t.

The third scheduled meeting, Celeste texted me a few hours before: “Will you be really disappointed if I reschedule today?? My irl SD had his afternoon open up suddenly and it’s been so long since I’ve really been dominated. I’ll tell you all the details!”

THIS? Honestly? This is perfection in my book.

I don’t demand that I be priority #1 for anyone. I don’t expect that. I’m not Celeste’s “sugar daddy.” I’m a dude who pays her to put her ass in my face while we stretch together. I don’t have rights to claim much, and this, this, was perfect. Respectful, communicative, and honest.

And perhaps I’ll have more to say later about “I’ll tell you all the details,” but I have a conflicted relationship to this. I would very much like to feed Celeste my cock. As I’ve written extensively, the relationship between the sexual and the financial in all this is complicated, toxic, for me. I really want to believe that if, when, Celeste sucks my cock, it’ll be because she wants to suck my cock. That money won’t be part of it. I know, I know – that’s not realistic, it’s not fair. Power. Money. Dynamics. Etc.

Still.

I want to feed her my cock. And, I want to know what turns her on, what gets her off. It certainly won’t get me off to hear the details of her encounter, but if, ever, I’m to taste her pussy, it certainly would be helpful if I knew something about what makes her motor run.

So. I wanted to know, and didn’t.

But she nailed the communication. She didn’t make an announcement, she asked a question. She recognized it would be a loss to me, and she offered me something. THIS is the way I like my submission, never mind my paid stretching companions. So. That.

Soon after, we found a time to meet. Her, in a pair of grey and white capri-length leggings (note to self: capri-length isn’t what you thought) and a black v-neck top. Together, we stretched, as she told me the details. Her body was, as usual, incredibly fucking motivating. Her tale, to me, wasn’t hot, per se: first, of course, because it wasn’t about sex with me, but also because this guy she was with, though he has some things in common with me (a taste for blindfolds, an affection for toys), there are differences, too. And those differences – and Celeste’s appreciation for those differences – all trigger my perversion. My general preference for that which is (and intolerance for that which is not) 1000 percent in alignment with what I wish, and 0% to the side. The account she gave felt more like an account of sex, of body parts, than an account of feelings. And for me, what makes sex hot isn’t actions, isn’t physical sensation; it’s about the interplay between desire, need, submission, compliance; anticipation and realization; tension and release. That all was present in Celeste’s account, but – at least in my hearing of her telling – it lagged far behind her account of precisely what went where.

An aside: my response to Celeste’s request – “Fly like the wind. Send me one photo of your pretty ass in whatever you wear to meet him,” generated from her a text, “Same outfit, but from a couple years ago.” And a photo, of her round ass, her dangerous curves, in a black corset. Celeste had no way of knowing this. She doesn’t know me. She hasn’t read my blog. But that was not a good response to me. She missed what I wanted along at least two dimensions.

First, it wasn’t what I asked for. She was showing me what she would undress to with him. I asked to see what she wore to meet him. I wanted her ass in – I don’t know – jeans? a dress? a skirt? What I got was what he would see when he undressed her. The tease I want doesn’t work that way. I might well want to see her ass in that corset, but certainly until after I learned what that corset lay beneath.

Second, what I got was twice removed from the moment – and from me. It wasn’t today. It wasn’t in response to my request. It was, therefore, a reminder not just that she was delivering her ass to someone not me, but that she previously had delivered her ass to yet another person. And this photo? Clearly I was at least the second person to see it. And more likely, a number higher than that. I don’t have a fantasy that I’m the only man in Celeste’s (or anyone’s) life. But. I do like to function as if that were so. In my interactions with women, in my interactions with Celeste – unless explicitly directed otherwise – I want her to allow me to believe that her body exists for my pleasure alone. Not in a psychotic, jealous, or deluded way. In a co-created fantasy way. [Note to reader: when Celeste read the post, she told me, “The picture I sent is from the morning after a threesome I had…. I realized I hadn’t taken any cute ones the night before, so I took it for my own records.” Better, if true, but still… I want to believe everything in the world is for me.]

When I began to write this post, I hadn’t yet posted (though I had written) my first second post on Celeste, which she had approved, which she liked much better than my actual first post. But after writing the paragraph above, I texted Celeste: “Send me a picture of your ass to include in my post. Let it be a picture you take for me, for this purpose. Delete it from your phone after you send it. I don’t want you to send it to anyone else. Unless by pointing them to the page.” The picture attached to that post came in response to that text.

The worst part of this all for me was, no surprise, that Celeste hadn’t sent what I had (intended to have) asked for. I clarified. She demurred. “I wore a pretty unassuming skirt and top.” I think she imagined this explanation would dampen my ardor to see what it was I had wanted. She was wrong. I wanted to see her ass in the unassuming skirt. I wanted it then. I still want it now.

Fast forward to when we did, finally, meet. Celeste’s ass in my face, as she recounted all the toys this guy had deployed on her, in her, I imagined exercising my dominance over her, putting her to my uses, and collecting all the delicious ways in which I could instruct her on my needs.

If, when, I ever see Celeste’s pretty, pretty ass in that corset? (And I very much would like to.) If I do, I will see it first in a pair of jeans, or a dress, or a skirt, that I’ve selected. She will be in a position that I’ve directed. It will be obscuring a body that I am about to manhandle, to toss around, to caress, spank, tickle, pinch, suck, lick, fuck.

And her pussy will be wet. For me. In anticipation of all of that.

None of this is a complaint. Celeste is fucking delicious. And our communication is getting better. She is learning what I want. I am learning how to instruct her, how to communicate that to her more effectively. Celeste is delightfully open, receptive, and generous.

I likely never will collect the orgasms for her, from her, that I crave. But it sure makes my cock hard to imagine them.

As our session ended, as I specified how I want to see her next time (in the leggings I had meant to request last time that, it turns out, are not capri length, but instead, are “biker-short length”), I closed by saying, “Bonus points if you have an orgasm within five minutes of our next meeting.”

We said good-bye, and I realized, my words had not been clear. She surely might imagine that what I meant was that I wanted her to have had an orgasm no more than five minutes before we meet. Or, that I intend for her to have an orgasm within the first five minutes we are together. Or, I suppose, that I want her to have an orgasm no later than five minutes after we end our time together.

I wonder which instruction she heard?

I wonder what she’ll offer, what I’ll ask for, what I’ll get….

I do love me some anticipation. And Celeste is most excellent at generating that in me.

Celeste’s magnificent ass in what I had thought were Capri-length shorts

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