Small room. Fat Ass.

She’s shy, but… But…

I track my readers. Not compulsively. Not always. But, if you read a lot of my blog, I know it. I get alerts when you read more than a few posts. I get alerts when you come back often. My readership is small enough that I know when I have a fan.

Sophia is a fan.

When I mentioned what I knew about Sophia – that she wasn’t in the city she told me in, but a smaller one, a few hours away – she freaked the fuck out. She did NOT feel comfortable that I knew a tiny fraction of what every other web site she visits knows about her. Because I knew that I made her cunt ache, just a little. I knew a little about her proclivities, because I could trace her path on my site.

When we first started stretching together – Emma introduced us – Sophia was quiet, demure. She answered my questions, but volunteered nothing. Her eyes are bright, big. Her glasses – not nerdy, but smart – make them just a bit bigger. Her breasts strain against whatever top she wears. Her ass is, as I said, fat.

Actually, I didn’t say it. She did. I wouldn’t say it’s fat. I would say it’s round. Meaty. Full. Soft. I would say that I imagine she bruises easily. That her ass turns heads in a way that both pleases and embarrasses her. She said it’s fat.

She radiates a slight stand-offishness. Where Emma invites dirty talk, gives as good as she gets, Sophia gives off a slightly… hesitant? scared? air.

I don’t tell Sophia that when I see her, I imagine testing my hypothesis about her bruising. That I want to bend her over against a wall, and learn just how wet it makes her pussy for me to rain blows down on her very pretty ass. For me to press my cock against her. To press the tip up into her.

I don’t tell Sophia that I want to see her pretty, bright, big, hungry eyes look up at me as I command her to kneel for me, as I trail my cock along her smooth, pale cheeks, along her wet, red lips.

I don’t tell Sophia that I know – though she denies it – that she has gotten herself off more than once to my writing. That she would read more if it didn’t scare her, embarrass her, to know that I know when she does.

What I tell Sophia, instead, is that I want, need, to see more of her.

Alas, though Sophia wanted to read what I wrote about her, she flaked on me right about when I wrote this. Lots going on in her life, and I didn’t hold her attention. Shame, that.

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