Every man says “It has never happened to me before.” But I can be honest here. It has happened to me. It happened the one time it really shouldn’t have. The one time I really did not want anything to go wrong. The one time I wanted to be the very best lover I could be … was the one time I couldn’t get it up.
This was in the days before I joined Fab. I answered a personal ad online. The ad was quite vague, but caught my attention. The girl writing was asking for a fantasy to be fulfilled. She wanted to play the part of ‘the other woman’. She wanted an older man to treat her like his mistress. To pamper her for just one night. It struck me as quite romantic, for a sexual fantasy. I replied to the ad and, after a couple of days of emails back and forth, it looked like we were destined to meet. We liked each other. She liked my ideas for helping to fulfil her fantasy. We hit it off.
We sent each other photos, because who wouldn’t want to see the person they were planning something like this with? She claimed not to care what I looked like, that it was my actions (even though those were only promises at this point) that turned her on. I was stunned when I saw her first photographs. She was beautiful. So far out of my league that I can’t think of a strong enough metaphor to describe it. She was a clear ten years younger than me, maybe a little more. Foreign, but indeterminately so – she looked international. The first photo she sent me had her heavily made-up, sitting on a bed in a miniskirt and hold-up stockings. The second, which was head and shoulders only, seemed naked – and it was animated. She was sticking her tongue out, to reveal a piercing. It looped, over and over again. Tilting her head and sticking out her pierced tongue, long, messily styled, black hair hanging down over one shoulder. Coquettish and witty. I fell for her there and then, before we even met.
We talked a lot, by email and by text, and arranged that I would book a very good hotel in her city (it wasn’t far from mine) for one night, a couple of weeks away. In the time beforehand, I was going to choose gifts for her. Lingerie, which she would wear on the night. She told me her measurements and left me to it. She wanted it to be to my taste, not hers. She wanted to be my toy for the night. She was going to be there only to please me. This was her fantasy, and I wanted nothing more than to fulfil it to the letter. I bought seamed black stockings for her. I bought a set of simple, yet beautiful, black underwear from Agent Provocateur – subtly decorated, figure-hugging, tiny. I bought too much for her to wear in one go – I wanted to give her options, let her choose which set to put on. I also bought her a black leather collar. A thin, soft, leather band with a tiny steel stud and ring at the front. Simple and plain enough that she could wear it anytime and nobody would know for sure that it was actually a sexual thing. The ring on the front was for tying things to: a leash, a ribbon, a chain …
I posted the collar to her a few days before our date. She emailed back a photograph of herself wearing it whilst out in a bar with friends. The text of the email just said “When I wear this I am yours. When I don’t, we are total strangers.” I am not sure anything had ever excited me so much.
We met in a cocktail bar. I arrived first and chatted with the barman while he made me a whisky sour. I was wearing a silver-grey suit, in a slim fitting, sixties-style cut. I felt good in it, so I kept the jacket on while I sat down at a table to wait for my girl. When she arrived, she toook my breath away. Medium height, but standing tall in jet-black high heels. A tight, simple, black dress that stopped at her thighs and split deeply down the front. She was perfect. Not too slim, not too curvy, with a classic hourglass figure. Sort of Asian looking, with skin somewhere between the colours of coffee and a deep tan. Big, dark, smoky eyes and full lips, split into a wide grin as she said hello. I took her coat, offered her a seat, and returned to the bar to buy her a drink. The barman busied himself putting together a Long Island ice tea and eventually handed it over saying “Jesus, mate. She’s something else.”
She was wearing her collar. She fingered it pointedly when I sat back down to join her. “I hope you like it. I’ve worn it every day since it arrived.” I couldn’t place her accent, there was American in it but other places too, so I asked. It turns out she was from all over the place. Had moved around her whole life. She had been working as a TV presenter in Malaysia and had given that up to study in the UK. It seemed appropriate. She had that indefinable presence, that star quality. Charisma, I guess. I was smitten.
We talked, we drank, and we got on well. We flirted at a distance. Fingers touching across the table, long, meaningful eye contact with lips parted and breath slow. When I finally leaned in and kissed her I could taste her sweet, sticky cocktails as strongly as her lipstick. I had the barman call us a taxi to our hotel.
I had already checked in earlier in the evening, so led her straight past the reception and bar, into the lift and up to our room. I had taken a small suite for the night and when I walked her in the lights were already on low and the air nicely warm. Two silver gift bags sat on the dresser table beside a bottle of red wine, and I told her that her lingerie was in the bags. I closed the door and reminded her that she was mine now, until we left in the morning. “Now take those bags into the bathroom and change into whichever pieces you like best.”
I was enjoying playing my role as the sugar daddy. I was enjoying having the most stunning girl I had ever seen not only on my arm, but hanging on my every word and staring lustfully into my eyes. I poured myself a glass of wine and sat back in one of the suite’s big, comfortable chairs while I waited for her to return.
She looked incredible. Like she had stepped out of a photoshoot. Without a word, she walked to the foot of the bed, keeping eye contact with me the whole time, and pirouetted, slowly, to show me herself. Black lingerie against her already mid-toned skin, her cleavage accentuated by a sparkling jewel in the middle of the bra, thin suspender belt around her waist and small panties stretched over her tight, round, arse – accentuated by the high heels she was wearing. Just beautiful. She took my breath away for the second time that night. She beckoned me over. I put down my glass, and stood to take off my clothes. Suit jacket, shoes, shirt … I couldn’t take my eyes off her while I stripped … trousers, socks, shorts … I left them all on the chair and took her hands in mine. I pulled her close and breathed in her perfume, kissing her full lips.
I lost the next couple of hours kissing her, feeling her skin against mine, and our hands on each other’s bodies. I was in heaven. I wanted to take my time, savour every moment, and make this last all night. I unclipped her suspenders and slid her knickers off, over her sheer stockings, so that I could push her back on the wide, soft, bed and go down on her. She was clean-shaven, soft and incredibly wet. Her moans as I brought her to orgasm were deep and low.
I kissed her as she regained her breath, but she immediately rolled me over and climbed on top of me. Reaching back behind herself to grasp my cock and guide it into her, something did not feel right. I wasn’t hard. Not hard enough, anyway. I tried to deflect her attention. I figured that if we just carried on that would sort itself out. No problem. I took hold of her hands and brought them back round in front of her, pulling her down to me for a kiss. I reached up and unhooked her bra, slipping it off her arms and letting it fall to the bed beside us. I ran my hands down her back and grasped her perfect arse, hard.
Still nothing. My cock stayed in that half-hard state that just makes it impossible to roll a condom on. I started to worry about it, which was never going to help. I didn’t understand. Here I was with the most gorgeous girl I had ever seen naked. She wanted me inside her. And I couldn’t do it. Why? Why now? What was wrong with me? This (genuinely) had never happened before, so why the one time I really didn’t want it to?
I improvised. I was not going to let this spoil my perfect night with this perfect woman. I went down on her again. I held her down with one hand while making her cum, squirting all over the white bed sheets and screaming in joy, with my fingers deep inside of her. I did everything for her that I could except fuck her.
I am going to regret that for the rest of my life. I had her for just one night and I didn’t fuck her.
I laid awake most of the night, while she slept soundly, head on my chest and one smooth leg wrapped over mine. I was angry with myself. I felt like a failure. But I wasn’t unhappy – I had still just spent the night with a most incredible girl.
I tried to stay in touch with her over the following weeks, but it didn’t last. A couple of days after that night, she emailed me photographs of herself in the other set of lingerie I had given her. A couple of weeks later, she texted me a photo of herself in a familiar bar, wearing her collar. The message just said “I am still yours.”
I never heard from her again, after that. |
