The Sex Born of Sexting, Part One

We met at a professional suite. Kristina’s height, tiny waist, and magnificent round hips was the first thing I noticed from the short distance we stood from each other. She was almost as tall as me. We drew closer, introduced by a mutual friend, and shook hands. Her big pretty eyes were framed by down-to-her-midback, curly bush of red hair. Then there was her full bustline—oh my. Kristina’s voice was alto-pitched and self-assured. Which turns me on just as much, but in a different way from soprano-toned women. Our friend gave me her email address when I expressed my interest. We emailed, and Kristina said she was happy I’d acted on my instinct of our shared attraction.

We had dinner at a Thai restaurant. She wasn’t a foodie, but appreciates eating healthfully like I do. Our conversation flowed nicely. Then the subject moved toward where I was sexually, as a lover and what I loved; what I wanted and could provide. I said in so many words that I move with the shared moment and utilize what pleasurable things and exchanges come to me and the two of us. I made it clear that I like to receive as well as be in control, often share control of her body with her, and that quality anal sex with women is a great passion of mine. Kristina knew that I am a sex educator and after my first email she said she wasn’t used to talking with men about sex the way I did. To give her a little time to get used to it. I did.

I took the initiative and wrote Kristina some serious and direct erotic texts/emails, or sexts as they’re now called:

My first one after our night out:
“Came hard and strong all over my chest this morning... from a montage of fantasies of you; your to-kill-for curves, your eyes, gorgeous mouth and cascading hair, and the fire that you bring. Your surrendering wet feminine too. Thank you for letting me see a little of both.”

She replied:
“Um, wow, that's pretty seductive!  I'm blushing... :) How about Sunday night for dinner. My place?”

During that week before Sunday, I wrote my longest erotic text yet, taking up all the characters allotted , she loved it. “Speechless,” she said. Sent me a text saying she’d reread it a few times too. And… I erased it at some point while cleaning off my blackberry. Kristina had too when I called to see if she still had it. It was a good one. (Sorry everyone. Lesson learned. Save the erotica to the phone before deleting.) I don’t remember it word for word, but it alluded to throwing down some pillows on a table, then lifting her and laying her down on top.

I’d order her to her knees, placing pillows under them for comfort. Because she’d be up there for as long as I wanted to swirl my tongue into her smoking-curved ass made even more so by how narrow the middle of her hourglass is. I’d stand in a wide and low stance with her feet off the edge of the table with almond oil, coating both hands so they could each fondle her small and sensitive feet at the same time I’d feast on that underwear-model’s ass. To any woman who hasn’t had her feet caressed with oil while her assets between her legs or cheeks are attended to have yet to live life fully.

Then for me, feeling the tremble set in made from resisting the urge as long as I can to slap down with both hands and knead the muscle and softness of that ass. After all, I’d have to have some place to wipe my hands clean before they make their way back down. I’d cross two fingers of my left hand before smoothly corkscrewing them down into her throbbing vagina while coaxing and spiral-rubbing her already begging clitoris with my right hand.

I’d have to release her relaxed and gradually opening ass from my lips’ grasp long enough to rise up a bit higher in posture to look down the slope of her: over her sexy sacral dimples, down the small of her back, further still to gaze on her D cup breasts squished down beneath her, but too big to not be visible at each side, just under each underarm that by now I’m sure is joining with her cunt in producing her sex-scent: the soft, erotic body odor that rises into the warm air around a fuck, but only in those precious and powerful hours of our lives. I’d breathe her and me in before answering the hunger that by now had returned in my chest to taste and smell her ass while my hands indulge her and themselves in the slick syrup that her wet-satin sex organ would pour down over my wrist. It was The Game. The Game I play that is. Played while we both waited; for her cervix and inner-pussy to grow like my cock does only backwards, making plenty of room for the solid and wet-tipped dick in my pants. Yeah, the text went something like that, more or less. Except at the end I promised her:

“When I come through your front door, I’m going to kiss you as you deserve to be kissed.

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