Emi

Emi seems intuitively to understand the way my visual cortex interacts with my libido.

Seemingly by reflex, she shimmies back, so I can see her cunt in the loose shorts she wears better. Or forward, so her ass takes up just the right amount of the screen (90 percent, I would say, but never touching the edge) as she bends over in those shorts, her cheeks exceeding their bottoms by a good inch or three.

She understands, with the instincts of a natural porn star, how to position herself to give me the optimal view of her lithe, slender body.

She’s eager, in an innocent-seeming way. She wants to be a good girl, but nearly without the ironic undertone with which most women with whom I’ve deployed that term project.

When I call “V” a good girl, there is no mistaking that I’m calling a competent, accomplished woman something that is radically disconnected from how she is perceived by most people, most of the time.

When I call Emi a good girl, it feels almost painfully close to – well, just to accurate.

Her smile is sweet. Innocent-seeming (though I have no illusions). Her breasts are tiny. Small B’s I would guess. As girlish as she is, she’s got the womanly curves. Her tiny waist flares out enough to be tantalizing. Her ass is round enough to beg a firm grip. And more.

Her voice is shy, quiet. But her presentation of her body reveals that she is fully aware of its power. 

Over me, at least.

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