Good on paper but…

I got my first email from a man who says he appreciates my honesty and that if more women were like me, the world be a better place.I have found that he is must be joking, for if more women were like me, then the human race would grind to a halt.

Most men often do not like literate, educated smart-ass women to be attached to permanently. I do not see it.

I have noticed a number of women with successful marriages (still there, not divorced) and most of them are not the sharpest knives in the drawer, or they have mastered the ability to not let what they think pop out of their mouths.

I am not a child of the sexual revolution (free love??!! how utterly gross) but I am a artistic person. I was taught to be myself, which is good for making money, raising vegetables and navigating through the airport, but not for relationships.

Trust me on this. If I had the ability to be pretend and keep a straight face, I would be gathering my wolfhounds on my country estate. Paid for by my husband, of course.

I can tell a lie, don’t get me wrong.

I just can’t live one for very long.

I called him. To hear his soft sighs and murmurs. He was up early, looking at my pictures, all arranged neatly by date.

He has taken his addictive and precise personality and turned some of it onto the pursuit of me. Not as flattering as it seems, for he is demanding, as all kinky men who have finally embraced their fetishes tend to be.

His breath caught in his stream of extolling my virtues, which told me he was playing with is cock and release was not very far away.

With a small smile, I commanded him to stop. Sighing heavily, he said he would.

I reminded him that ‘I would’ is not the same as ‘I am’. Two different tenses, which exist into two different states of time and action.

 With a strangled sound, I could tell he let go.

“Mistress, when?” he said, low and urgent.

“In about one hour, that is when I will be ready for you. Don’t make me wait.”

50 minutes later, he was on his knees. Kneeling, face buried under my shirt, lapping, sucking, nuzzling in-between my thighs. Hands clenching my ass, slightly throwing off my balance, as I was perched on heels and the force of his assault was causing me to slide along the slippery wooden floor.

10 minutes after that, I was sitting on his face, his tongue in my ass, while I lightly spanked his cock. He was so erect, veins standing and pulsing before my eyes, that I thought his skin might spilt from the pressure.

His mushroom head was oozing pre-cum and his hips were arcing up, balls so tight and full.

I could not resist. With my special two-fingered grasp, I jerked him rapidly into oblivion. His cries were muffled by my ass, absorbing the shock wave of sound, displaced by longing.

His cum shot high into the air; light fracturing it seems, through the droplets. They fell back onto his thighs and stomach, barely missing me.

Lifting my ass up and looking down through spread legs at his flushed face, I saw such intense pleasure.

Which was soon mirrored on my own face, as I tucked my gift into my wallet after he departed.

I got my first email from a man who says he appreciates my honesty and that if more women were like me, the world be a better place.I have found that he is must be joking, for if more women were like me, then the human race would grind to a halt.

Most men often do not like literate, educated smart-ass women to be attached to permanently. I do not see it.

I have noticed a number of women with successful marriages (still there, not divorced) and most of them are not the sharpest knives in the drawer, or they have mastered the ability to not let what they think pop out of their mouths.

I am not a child of the sexual revolution (free love??!! how utterly gross) but I am a artistic person. I was taught to be myself, which is good for making money, raising vegetables and navigating through the airport, but not for relationships.

Trust me on this. If I had the ability to be pretend and keep a straight face, I would be gathering my wolfhounds on my country estate. Paid for by my husband, of course.

I can tell a lie, don’t get me wrong.

I just can’t live one for very long.

People are flawed. That seems to be part and parcel of life. Often I do not want to see flaws, as it stops progress. I do not like to have to stop and fix things.

But yes, even I have to slip away from my habits and put on my tool belt.

I have found my slave. Well, he found me. I presume that I have a kink radar that broadcasts and locates the freaks to come hither.

He decided that he needs to show me his devotion. In my fashion, I ask for something tangible. We are just at the talking stage but calling a man nasty names and encouraging him to let his hidden slave out is time consuming.

He EFT’ed some money in bank for me. ( Don’t cha love the digital age?)

As luck would have it, he was in my neighborhood.  I told him that he could bring more over.

But of course he could not follow orders. He was late (was understandable), I had left. So instead of leaving the money, he took it with him.

I had to write out the steps on what to do the next time this occurs. I am not going to always be there, waiting, hand outstretched.  In the same way that I left my friend a loaf of bread I baked this am, slave man can leave things for me, as well.

Now I can go back to pretending that everything will always run smoothly.

As I have told you, Dear Reader, I am not a hooker. I just act like one. There is quite a difference between being and doing.

That is about to change. Because I drawing the line in the sand. More on that in a sec.

Although to me, any exchange of money between a man and a woman is a form of trade, there are gradations. Some are legal (wives); others are illicit (that hot stripper who went all the way in the private room at the Club). Other float in the gray area where I exist-the girlfriend/mistress/sweet party girl zone.

Being in that zone means I get the fun stuff and the nice treatment. Even after it is over, I still hold a fond place in his heart and we can hang out or get a drink. I can call for advice or a friendly referral to a good doc or lawyer. You know, that kind of good stuff.

The beauty of this zone is that you get what you want without the man being all pissy or angry. But the ugly part is that at some point, it stops being fun. Either he is ready to move on or move in. Yuck to both.

Being that I tend to like the powerful type of guy, I have noticed that the new models coming out of the factory are getting kinkier and kinkier. I like to play a bit but I don’t have a closet of fetish gear.

So… it has come that I have to define not only what I want, but also how much I will give and take.

I have always been a spoiled princess. But if I have to don leather, latex, rubber or some other material such as those, I need to charge. By the minute and per the act.

No sex, just domination for those who want to slide into the kinky side of things. I have a bias; I can’t seriously date a man that I have spanked, pissed on, defile or called an ass-licking whore. That just is not turn-on.

Recently, I found my cherry popper. He is a banker who has some “special needs”.  Like to be ridden like a horse, and to be told how nasty he is, as I let him beg to sniff my ass.

I am strapping on my boots but my knees are shaky. I have not walked on this side of the street; I have only passed by.

 I will wing it until I know exactly what I am doing. Fingers crossed.

Before you think I am just delusional, that I am a hooker with aspirations (or delusions), let me explain.

Men are the ones who make the labels, but we women are the ones who wear them, willingly or not. It is still a world that is run mostly by men.

I luckily had a dad that explained to m that men value certain behaviors. It is up to me how I chose to adapt to those expectations.

In demanding that a man do more for me that stick his cock in me, I have slid over into naughty girl territory. Fun place to be, actually.

As I am not a wife, I do not have a legal and natural right to expect a man to do for me just because we have sex. I just demand that he does, as sex has a cost. Of the many tings that are free, in my estimation, sex isn’t. Love is but not sex.

And even if I love a man, I still expect things.

However, men have not treated me in the way that they treat hookers, escorts, strippers and street walkers. Only because in their heads, I am not a hooker.

But other men have not been so kind, they have been offended that I want some of what they value the most-money. I do not fool with them, obviously.

I often wish that men would be more careful of the feelings of women who are sex workers, as no matter what, they are human beings who deserve to be treated with respect.

Some women are fine, educated and well groomed, so they can command a high price for their favors. Some are clever and charismatic, as a result they can keep a man panting and running. Some are pushed by desperation into dealing with men in this fashion, so they are not as adept at getting the best price.

I do not make the mistake in thinking that women who do not expect a man to give them money, think of me as anything but an undercover hooker. I would even argue that the crackhead on the dark street corner can’t see any difference between herself and me.

In truth, what is the difference? Besides the fact that I do not have to be bothered, that I can survive on my regular job, that I don’t have factors that drive me to sex work. I am not any better or worse than “those girls”

I am just an average girl, not super gorgeous or a model, by any means.  What I do have is than enough brains and enough realism to understand that I can pretend to be in love and have sex. Or I can have sex and get real, not pretend things.

I believe that most women are bargaining for something. I prefer to honestly bargain for cash and gifts.

have a few long time friends who while supportive of me, are staring to turn a bit green with envy.

Not because they want to. But every time I come along with a new gift, some more money, or details about an upcoming trip, they feel the blaze of the green ogre.

And lately, they are becoming more free with the criticism, as if they have someone who will bend over backwards to please them. Now magically, they have demands and wish lists that are supposed to be filled, via my life.

They are really just mad at themselves, for if they were honest, more courageous and less in a hurry, they could have gotten more out of life.

Since they settled so quickly for the 1^st reliable guy, or had kids so fast, or held back, they are grounded.

Instead of just taking a chance, they went for the safe bet. No risk often means small returns.

I am just a bit loopy, so I have no problem demanding that things go my way. Or the guy can walk on. Plenty of fish for both of us. No need to argue about it.

For my fish, I just prefer a nice herbed filet of sole, nestled on a buttery creamy bed of risotto, with a nice glass of wine in a beautiful restaurant. Preferably overlooking the Swiss or Italian Alps. Other people are happy with fish sticks in front of the TV.

To each her own.

No, not me. A bunch of men on the local news were shown sauntering into a park for some quick and fierce action.

I called one of my gf’s kinda late last night, to see if she had caught the story.

She was of course shocked and miffed, by turns. After all, these are probably married men and people walk through that park with their kids!

Her take on it is that the men need to stop lying and find a woman who is okay with their bisexuality. I told he that it is not just the sex but that need to be sneaky that gets them all so hard, so please, don’t expect them to cut short the excitement.

I have personally known (as in being real friends) very few men that are open about their bisexuality. But I know triple the numbers who are sneaking. I imagine it is hard to get a woman who wants to share her man with other men. 

I feel a bit of empathy for those guys. Some don’t want to be identified as bi. Or only want it every so often. Or are fighting their urges and shame. Some just like it quick and dirty, in a natural setting.

But eventually, there they are. Licking their lips, anticipating the danger, flinching at the sound of a person coming down the path.

Balls are tight, so heavy and full, needing release. Cocks are throbbing; muscles are clenched. And finally, so hot and fast, the release.

And of they go, back to the daily routine of their daily life.

Until next time.