There she is, appearing during my usual five minutes of daily Tinder swiping. Little One, 21 years old, but looks much younger (17 at most). Very young, fair skin, delicate features with a Central European touch. A childlike face frames a sexy gaze, creating an ontologically impossible contrast that comes to life in her with extraordinary grace. She’s a little minx: the world doesn’t know it, I know it, and she’s about to find out with me.
She’s a tiny thing, but she has a massive stage presence: I can imagine her slender, graceful figure walking into a room and making the crowd catch their breath. Getting to know her, I’ll eventually realize that Little One is a concentrate of energy, a sort of enriched plutonium whose radiations—equally lethal—are pure love.
The photos are very unique: in one she’s a top model, in another the teen girl next door, in another she’s an Indian dancer all decked out. And indeed, in her bio, she professes a love for Bollywood dancing.
“What the hell is Bollywood dancing?” I think. Doesn’t matter; now that I know it exists, I have to try it! You guys know: I’m a dancer on loan to the business world, a delicate performer trapped in the body of a dockworker—masculine but massive. In fact, Bollywood movie heroes are so improbable that I might actually be believable for once, maybe with a nice mustache like my father’s. Give me some mascara, a mesh shirt to show off my hairy chest, some wide, flowing pants and… Roberto Bolle, move over! The Magnificent is arriving in his Indian version.
“I want to do Bollywood dancing too,” I write to her on impulse. A tight and brilliant conversation begins where she tells me about her dreams. She lives in the Americanina’s city but will soon move to Milan to study fashion design. She dreams of becoming a creative director, having her own brand. She says a phrase just like me:
The tiny wren with the stature of Napoleon
“I want people to wear my dreams and feel like themselves in a dream.”
This tiny thing with the golden gaze exudes ambition and greatness just like Solomon, my Jack Russell who thought he was a lion.
She’s hyper-ambitious, convinced of her future success. Later, when we’re seeing each other, she’ll tell me “ I’ll make much more money than you. And I’ll hire you in my corporation“.
Me: Ah, thanks. And to do what, general manager?”
Her: “No, to bring me coffee, give me little kisses, and give me head massages.”
Ah, poor Magnifico, Sic transit Gloria Mundi!
And then the plot twist: she’s looking for a serious relationship. At 21, without having ever lived. And she asks me: “You’re not one of those guys looking for weird relationships, I don’t know, like open ones?”
Well, the chat moves to Instagram. Sparkling, we dance together on emotions, weaving laughter in a continuous reverberation of harmony and mutual teasing
The chat immediately takes a surreal turn. She tells me that until we meet in person, she can’t know if I’m the right guy. I tell her that for all I know, we might end up fighting furiously at our first meeting. She raises the stakes: she suggests a flying kick as a way to test our compatibility. I tell her that if we fight, I’ll have to shower her with flowers and write her an apology note, and she admits she doesn’t even know if she’s capable of making up—but she wants to try. Then she starts worrying that the flying kick might hurt her more than it hurts me.
One conversation was enough to realize that Little One was an explosive mix of tenderness and madness—the kind of girl who suggests martial arts and then worries about breaking a leg. Someone who admits she doesn’t know how to do something and immediately wants to try it anyway.
The first date: a two-hour train ride for me
We chat for a few days, then decide to meet up. She’ll come all the way to Milan for me, a two-hour train ride. I decide to reward her effort by taking her to the spa.
I pick her up at the station and it’s love at first sight. So sweet, all smiles, a bit embarrassed. She’s wearing one of her little dresses, quite short. In the car, she holds my hand, between her thighs, near her groin, but well spaced. I wonder if it’s to keep me away from her sacred place or to bring me closer.
We arrive at the spa.
I confess a bit of embarrassment being with a 21-year-old who looks like a 17-year-old girl to everyone.
Four months have passed since that moment. As I write, Little One is lying naked on my sofa, wearing a bunny tail butt plug, recovering after an intense sex session. Her schoolgirl outfit is on the floor. My memories from back then are tender, happy, and confused.
Inside, I’m both happy and sad: happy for these 4 intense months of relationship, sad for the awareness that we’ve reached the end. Soon she will walk out of my life, causing that Frontal Crash described in an admirable post on a seduction forum. Ironically, I have a library of over 1,000 books and the highest insights I found… in the most vulgar forum in Caracas. I’m a bit sad for this love, suffocated by her inability to accept an open relationship. (ndFilippo: Correct to “suffocated by my inability to love”)
But back to us. This is her first time at the spa, but after all, the beauty of being 21 is that everything is a first. She explores the pools, the jets, and the bubbles. My hands explore her hips, her ass, and her inner thighs.
We kiss, under the indignant glares of the matrons convinced I’m taking advantage of a minor. I look at them with a mischievous smile, hoping my cheeky expression pulls them back into memories of a distant past, when they were happily fooling around themselves.
The conversation continues tender and sweet, between hugs and gentle scratches.
She talks and talks.
My hands slip under the edges of her swimsuit.
She talks and talks.
My hands caress her in the most sacred spot.
She keeps talking, pretending nothing is happening, but she spreads her legs, arches her back, and smiles with all 152 teeth: sexual arousal crashes inside her tiny body like a wave on the rocks.
She’s soaking wet, the naughty girl.
We stay a bit longer, then I take her home.
I feed her.
We lie down on the inevitable sofa, the promiscuous witness to a thousand sexual encounters.
The casual thing that wasn’t just a casual thing
I reflect on what she told me before. She has very little sexual experience. She’s never come. She says she feels pain during penetration. She was deflowered by a 50-year-old asshole who didn’t stop at her “you’re hurting me!” but instead started slapping her saying “there, now you won’t feel pain in your pussy”.
No, my priority today is her pleasure.
I won’t penetrate her. Today I’ll limit myself to caressing her, cuddling her, licking her.
She comes.
For the first time in her life, with a man.
I try to show her that sex is pleasure, not pain (if not minimally). That it’s respect and altruism, not filling holes to cum in.
It’s a game of connection, not violence.
I cuddle her some more and take her back to the station.
I go home with a hard-on, but happy.
So begins this relationship, which was more than just a fling: one of the two open relationships (MLTR, as the Milanese say), a woman I loved.
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