I meet TetteDolci, just signed up on Seeking.com. We chat for a bit, I ask for her number, and then we move over 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 my place for dinner and she stiffens up, saying she doesn’t go to strangers’ houses. I counter with a coffee, and at that point, she confesses she lied to me: she doesn’t live in Milan, as she told me in our very first exchanges, but in a city about an hour away.
This last part really gets on my nerves: I have little time and I hate when people waste it; even more so, I can’t stand people who lie. I wish her 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.
The good girl with a lust for life
I ask her to tell me about herself. She tells me she’s 26, just got out of a 7-year relationship, and is looking for a mature, experienced man to experience a life she never lived, with a long term perspective. Interesting: from 19 to 26 with just one person and a whole life to catch up on. Reminds me of myself, though I did worse: from 18 to 36, lol.
She works for a tax consulting firm and… you should know that international tax planning is one of my passions. So we end up talking about corporate structures, accounting policies, and triangulations between jurisdictions… not exactly your classic seduction topics, 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 great mind, I can sense she has a huge desire for unexpressed life. She’s always been a “good girl” in a fairly traditional context. I feel like she wants to explore parts of herself that have been left in the shadows for too long. If she wants, I’d like to help her unleash the little slut living 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.
The first date: loft, kitchen, and a plug
I feel honored to be a portal to a new dimension.
Well, at this point she’s the one asking to meet this Friday. In the meantime, the story with my long-term ex has been over for a while (I’ll tell you about it) and I really feel like having a sweet girl to wash the disappointment out of my heart.
Anyway, SweetTits takes a half-day off work, hits the road, and drives an hour to come see me. I love 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.
Pleasure like never before
SweetTits is… all sweetness. She has a tender look, with an Asian eye shape that reminds me a lot of the Chinese girl from Kill Bill. She has a graceful, soft, gentle little voice that becomes incredibly sexy when she’s coming and saying she’s my slut. She’s gentle in her movements and elegant in her thoughts.
As soon as she arrives she’s very stiff, she kisses me… on the cheek! 🙂 We were already getting pretty heavy in chat, but meeting in person is always different. Maybe meeting a man like this is something new for her, something very strange.
I open a good, unpretentious wine (Anthìlia by Donnafugata) and we settle on the sofa: me lying back nonchalantly, her intimidated in the corner. In the background, the inevitable virtual fireplace on Apple TV.
“Don’t look at me like that. You’re making me feel self-conscious.”
All of them tell me this, even the most savvy and battle-hardened ones like my long-term ex. It’s not something I try to convey, quite the opposite. It comes from the way I look: it feeds on every tiny detail, every minute facial expression and every gesture, even the slightest… I try to understand who’s 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 girl, you’re off to a great start.
I thank her, holding the precious gift in my hand with the solemnity of someone bringing offerings to an altar, and head toward the bookshelf, where a black wooden parallelepiped stands. It’s the cigar humidor. I roughly toss aside the objects sitting on top and carefully place the lipstick on the humidor.
I go back 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’ll avoid reporting all the nice things she says about me: you should never give too much weight to what’s whispered between the sheets (though we were on the sofa, mind you).
It turns me on to hear her panting with pleasure in her delicate, sweet little voice, hearing that she’s my whore, first whispered and then building up until she’s screaming it.
She confesses her fantasies to me, asks me to do it with another man. I suggest my Black chef friend and counter with a second meeting with a female friend of mine. She’s ecstatic.
SweetTits has a very narrow waist and wide hips, according to the golden ratio. She’s naturally thin, naturally fit (without having to do sports). Her skin is soft as silk. Her face is innocent and a bit like a cock-sucker’s, thanks to a recent filler she says she got 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 an anal plug that I had bought for the American Girl. It’s still sealed in the box, since that story ended before we could try it.
I lubricate.
I insert.
I remove.
I slide it back in.
I play, moving the tail at various angles to stimulate her further.
I insert a finger, along with the plug.
She’s surprised by how pleasant it is.
I make her get up from the sofa and tell her, laughing: “This room is too small. Put your hands on that wall, help me move it a bit.”
She complies, trotting over.
I remove the tail.
I go in.
I enter smoothly, without effort.
Her voice rises an octave and the 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.”
I realized a long time ago that the ass is the way to the heart: if a girl gives herself like that, it means she’s open to an emotional involvement with you. You only hear words of love during anal sex. Unless… well, that’s advanced level, I can’t tell you about it here.
It goes in and out beautifully.
I take her back to the sofa.
I have her lie face down, with her legs completely closed.
I enter with all my size and strength.
The intensity grows.
I ask her 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 spend a great evening, between sex, chatting, and cuddling. Lots of cuddling. She’s very sweet, I get the instinct to take care of her.
Finally, naked and tired on the sofa, we watch Lucifer on Netflix. The TV series tells how the devil decides to take a vacation from Hell, moves to Los Angeles, and enjoys the high 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 only give to myself, in my mind:
“Behind that luxury, those cars, and the many women he sees, a good person is hidden. He has a fantastic life envied by everyone, but suddenly he discovers love. He realizes that life has a different flavor… and he 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 he’s scared. He’s suspended in the middle, between the fantastic life he has and the strange one, full of dangers, that he could have. Between the immortality of pleasure and the mortality of love.” And, to keep it hidden, 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 she had with me was far beyond what she was used to.
I wouldn’t want her to feel like too much of a slut 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, whether as a “good girl” or a little slut. We are all both, we simply need to be free to live them fully.
The feelings speak for themselves: if you feel good while doing something, 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.
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