I spot SweetTits just signed up on Seeking.com. We chat a bit, I ask for her number, and then we move to WhatsApp.
And it starts off badly. She confesses she’s afraid of dogs, almost to the point of panic. And I live half the month with Solomon (he’s in… shared custody with my ex).
I invite her to dinner at my place and she stiffens, saying she doesn’t go to strangers’ houses. I counter with a coffee, and then she confesses she lied to me: she doesn’t live in Milan, as she said in our first exchanges, but in a city about an hour away.
This last thing really annoys me: I have little time and I hate when people waste it; even more, I can’t stand people who lie. I wish her good luck and say goodbye.
In the following days, I see she no longer has an active profile on Seeking. I contact her out of curiosity, and she tells me she unsubscribed in disgust: it’s not a world for her. Interesting.
I ask her to tell me about herself. She says she’s 26, just out of a 7-year relationship, and she’s looking for a mature and experienced man to try a life she’s never lived, with a long-term perspective. Interesting: from 19 to 26 with just one person and a life to catch up on. She reminds me of myself, though I did worse: from 18 to 36, haha.
She works at a tax consulting firm and… you should know that international tax planning is one of my passions. So we end up talking about corporate schemes, budget policies, and triangulations between jurisdictions… not exactly the classic topics to seduce a woman, right? ;))
In reality, I have no desire to seduce; for a while now, I only play to see if the girl is interesting to me and if it makes sense to be with her. And when we meet, things go as they should. There’s no point in forcing them.
She has a beautiful mind, I sense she has a great unexpressed desire for life. She’s always been a “good girl,” in a fairly traditional context. I feel she wants to explore parts of herself left in the shadows for too long. If she wants, I’d like to help her unleash the little slut inside her.
Oh yes, I forgot: I want to fuck her because she’s objectively a hottie.
I’m not used to investing too much time before meeting someone. But with her, I chat a lot. We share our lives, we sext, she sends increasingly provocative photos, up to the one naked, in the shower, with my name written in waterproof lipstick on her belly.
She has incredibly sweet tits, hence her name. I find out she’s never had bisexual experiences, never had anal sex, and no one has ever asked her for sexy photos before.
I feel honored to be a portal to a new dimension.
Well, at this point, she asks to meet me this Friday. Meanwhile, the story with HoneyEyes ended a while ago (I’ll tell you about it) and I’m really in the mood for a sweet girl to rinse my heart from the disappointment I felt.
Well, SweetTits takes half a day off work, hits the road, and drives an hour to come to me. I adore her.
She arrives in her tiny car, wearing an elegant and seductive all-black outfit, against which the red sole of her Louboutins stands out. She asks me to park for her; she’s not used to the Milanese jungle. She’s very cute.
SweetTits is… all sweet. She has a tender look, with an Asian eye shape that reminds me a lot of the little Chinese girl from Kill Bill. She has a graceful, soft, gentle voice that becomes terribly sexy when she moans, saying she’s my whore. She’s sweet in her movements and elegant in her thoughts.
As soon as she arrives, she’s very stiff, she kisses me… on the cheek! 🙂 In chat, we were already getting heavy, but meeting in person is always different. Maybe meeting a man like me is something new, very strange for her.
I open a good, unpretentious wine (Anthìlia by Donnafugata) and we settle on the couch: me lounging nonchalantly, her intimidated in the corner. In the background, the inevitable virtual fireplace of Apple TV.
“Don’t look at me like that. You’re making me feel self-conscious.”
All of them say this to me, even the most savvy and battle-ready ones like HoneyEyes. It’s not something I want to convey, quite the opposite. It’s the result of my gaze: it feeds on every little detail, every tiny facial expression, and every gesture, even if just hinted at… I try to understand who I have in front of me, without judgment and with an open heart. That’s why I observe.
But soon we get in sync. We talk, laugh, and confide in each other.
I kiss her.
“I have a gift for you,” she says.
No one has ever brought me a gift on the first meeting.
“It’s the lipstick I used to write your name on my belly. No one has ever made me do something like that. It’s yours.”
Good job, girl, you’re off to a great start.
I thank her, hold the precious gift in my hand with the solemnity with which gifts are brought to the altar, and head to the bookshelf, where a black wooden parallelepiped stands out. It’s the cigar humidor. I carelessly throw away the objects placed on top and carefully place the lipstick on the humidor.
I return to her, kiss her, and touch her tits: sweet as honey, soft as clouds, but firmer.
She undresses. I do too, out of politeness.
We fuck, with great pleasure.
I avoid reporting all the nice things she says about me: you should never give too much importance to what’s whispered between the sheets (though we were on the couch, eh).
It excites me to hear her pant with pleasure with her delicate and sweet voice, to hear that she’s my slut, first whispered and gradually crescendo, until she shouts it.
She confesses her fantasies, asks me to do it with another man. I suggest my black chef friend and propose a second meeting with a female friend of mine. She’s thrilled.
SweetTits has a very narrow waist and wide hips, according to the golden ratio. She’s naturally slim, naturally fit (without having to exercise). She has skin as soft as silk. Her face is innocent and a bit slutty, thanks to a recent filler she says she did for me (but I don’t believe her).
She completely trusts me without resistance. She only stiffens when I play with her ass. “Relax, we won’t do anything you’re not ready for.”
We continue, and gradually she gets used to my fingers.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, and go to retrieve the fox tail with anal plug I had bought for the American girl. It’s still sealed in the box, as the story ended before we could try it.
I lubricate.
Insert.
Remove.
Insert again.
I play, moving the tail in various angles to stimulate her further.
I insert a finger, along with the plug.
She’s surprised at how pleasant it is.
I make her get up from the couch and tell her, laughing: “This room is too small. Put your hands on that wall, help me move it a bit.”
She complies, trotting.
I remove the tail.
I enter.
I enter smoothly, without effort.
Her voice rises an octave, and her panting intensifies.
Between meaningful syllables and sighs, she tells me how much she likes taking it in the ass.
She’s surprised not to feel pain.
She repeats that she’s my slut. I tell her, “No, you’re my girl to love, to take care of.”
By now, I’ve long understood that the ass is the way to the heart: if a girl gives herself, it means she’s open to emotional involvement with you. Only words of love are heard during anal sex. Unless… well, that’s advanced level, I can’t tell it here.
In and out, it’s a beauty.
I bring her back to the couch.
I make her lie face down, with her legs completely closed.
I enter with all my size and strength.
The intensity grows.
I ask if I can honor the gift she gave me.
“Yes.”
I honor her.
We compose ourselves, but only as necessary: I want her to keep walking around the house in her underwear and bra.
I cook her a beetroot risotto with robiola.
We have a great evening, between sex, chats, and cuddles. Lots of cuddles. She’s very sweet, I feel the instinct to take care of her.
Finally, naked and tired on the couch, we watch Lucifer on Netflix. The TV series tells how the devil decides to take a vacation from Hell, moves to Los Angeles, and indulges in the good life among women, adventures, and vintage cars.
“I like Lucifer,” I tell her, “I kind of want to be like him, I kind of feel like him. I like his style, his beauty, his elegance. But above all, I feel close to him “.
“Why?” She asks.
I respond with a joke: “Maybe because all my friends’ girlfriends call me Beelzebub.”
The real answer I give only to myself, in my mind:
“Behind that luxury, those cars, and the many women he frequents hides a good person. He has a fantastic life, envied by everyone, but suddenly discovers love. He realizes life has another flavor… and becomes vulnerable. He, the immortal, with all his greatness… in the face of love, he’s nothing but a poor devil. He’s changing and is scared. He’s suspended halfway, between the fantastic life he has and the strange, perilous one he could have. Between the immortality of pleasure and the mortality of love. And, to avoid being discovered, he plays the Magnificent.”
We sleep embraced.
The next morning, SweetTits wakes me up. We have sex, but she’s stiffer than the night before. Not surprisingly, we can’t have anal sex.
Hmm.
We have breakfast, and then she leaves, quite quickly.
Hmm.
I think the experience with me was far beyond what she was used to.
I hope she didn’t feel too slutty the next morning (classic buyer’s remorse).
I’d be sorry, regardless of whether I see her again or not.
No one should ever feel wrong, neither as a “good girl” nor as a little slut. We’re all both things; we just need to be free to live them fully.
Feelings speak: if while doing something you feel good, well… that’s the real thing, the authentic thing.
Of her, more than anything, I appreciated the sweetness. She was sweet even in the most sexually intense moments. She was graceful even while enjoying herself.
I like her. I hope there will be a future.
