Twelve Months of Kristal: 50 Loving States Maine

“Hai.” I grip the arms of the chair, combatting the urge to touch myself as my eyes settle on her curvy body.

More hesitation. Then she raises her eyes to the ceiling and begins removing her clothing. Quickly, as if she’s responding to a dare.

Soon, I go from resisting the urge to stroke myself to biting back a smile. Kristal’s “strip” is very, very different from the women I usually hire, most of whom could perform a full undressing routine to music if asked.

She pulls on one sleeve, then the other to gracelessly take off her red sweater. Her bright red Doc Marten boots aren’t so much slipped off as tugged. Then she rather comically hops around in her dark green leggings to get them off in a standing position.

“Sorry,” she mumbles when she nearly falls over while pulling off the last leg.

I don’t answer. Can’t answer. The urge to laugh? That has disappeared along with all the water in my suddenly dry throat.

The sight of Kristal in nothing but a simple white cotton bra and panty set makes me wonder why lingerie companies don’t use more women like her to advertise their wares. The organic material fits like a second skin, struggling to contain her generous curves. And even more arousing than that, there’s a damp patch at the crotch of her panties.

“You are already wet.” The words come out as both an observation and an accusation.

She doesn’t answer. Just clamps her lips and looks away.

I’m grateful for her shyness. It means she doesn’t see how much it takes for me to keep my voice level as I say, “Take off the rest, please.”

“Wow…” she says, voice breathless as if I’ve asked her to run additional kilometers after finishing a marathon.

But she complies. She divests herself of her underwear in the same clumsy manner as her clothes. Then she squirms underneath my gaze, her wide hips shimmying as she shifts from foot to foot.

I will have to instruct her on how to undress for me properly—also buy her some proper lingerie for the job.

But if she thinks her discomfort will stop me from looking my fill, she is sorely mistaken. I take my time, my eyes lingering on her plump breasts before lazily dropping down to the space between her legs. Unlike most of my American escorts, she’s unshaven down below. I like the way her arousal glistens in her springy hairs under the room’s light.

My cock pulses. Done with whining and on to threats of what will happen if I don’t get it inside this woman.

“You will get in the bed, please, and present yourself on your hands and knees.

It’s as if I’ve unexpectedly ended her prison sentence. She all but flees to the bed without a second of hesitation. Getting into position, she sticks her lush bottom into the air and turns her head away from me. I can tell her easy acquiescence is as much an excuse to turn away from me as it is a concession to my request.

I don’t mind her eagerness to hide her face from me. At least in this position, she is little more than an ass and pussy. Less dangerous. I still remember how easily I fell apart the first time with her. How I lost control and never quite managed to get it back.

Just another escort. That is what I tell myself. What I try to imagine as I pull a condom out of my back pocket and get undressed.

Coming to stand behind her, I recite the rest of the instructions listed in all of my anonymous escort agency files. “I prefer no movement when we are having sex. I would like for you to stay still no matter what I do. Without any sound, please. Completely passive.”

In other words, the opposite of the first night we had sex. I watch her closely to see how she’ll respond.

“Okay…” she answers. Her is voice trembling.

Fear or anticipation? I’m not sure, and I can’t bring myself to care. Those instructions issued, I finally allow myself to…

Her hands fist the covers when I push in, all the way to the hilt. A stifled gasp escapes, but other than that, she doesn’t make a sound.

I cannot say the same. A groan slips from my mouth, long and guttural. Being back inside her feels even better than I anticipated. Like coming out of the cold into a ramen shop with a fireplace on a winter’s day.

On a winter’s day…

The song that didn’t stop playing inside of my head until the moment I saw her again comes back full blast as I start thrusting into her tight heat.

There are quite a few reasons I’ve come to prefer this position combined with my completely passive instructions the best. It allows me to concentrate on coming without the distractions of high-pitched (Japanese girls) or too lewd (American girls) chatter. Under these conditions, I can do and imagine as I please.