Our telephone conversation is brief. I don't know much about you from your ad, and I don't ask. I don't even know your name, only your code: luv69. I simply tell you that when you come over, we will have a drink and discuss the night's activities. I tell you how to find my posh condo in Northwest Washington, DC, with its hardwood floors and Oriental rugs and incredible view over the park and how to enter the secret code to get into the building.
An hour later, I hear a knock at my door. I open it. You are small, with blonde hair and postcard-sky blue eyes. You are young, your early 20's at most. You are wearing a thin cotton summer dress, blue, with a low-cut bodice and buttons down the front. The length is medium-thigh, and your legs are bare, clad only in a pair of strappy leather sandals. I can see the roundness of your well-shaped breasts. Your nipples are erect. I am so much taller than you that you reach only to my chest. My dark hair and trimmed beard are a sharp contrast to your light blonde hair and clear white skin.
You step in. Now, if I were polite, I would introduce myself. If I were polite, I would invite you to sit down. If I were polite, I would ask you what you want to drink.
What I actually do is this: I close the door behind you and, with a firm hand, lean you against the wall of the narrow entrance foyer. With my hand, I turn your head to one side and suck and nibble your earlobe. I run my tongue around your ear. You are about to say something: I place an authoritative finger over your lips and you stop. I kiss and suck your neck. I pull apart the top of your dress. You are not wearing a bra, and your round, pale breasts spill out to be sucked and tongued and kissed until your breath starts coming in short gasps.
I reach down and hike up your skirt. You are wearing nothing underneath, and my hand goes right to your pussy with its light dusting of blond hair. I find your labia and clit and fondle them and feel you getting wetter and wetter until you are ready. I unbutton and unzip and my cock is so hard that it jumps right out of my tidy whities, long and thick and up-curved. I place the large head right against your labia, and all I have to do is push to slide it in. But I don't.
Instead, I put my large hands around your small waist and lift you like a male ballet dancer lifting his partner. I place you facing away from me and toward the living room, and press down on your bare, lightly freckled, smooth shoulder to indicate that you should get on your hands and knees on the Oriental carpet that runs the length of the foyer. You do, and I kneel behind you, lifting your dress and taking you from behind. We start slow, you grinding your round, smooth ass into my hips as I thrust back and forth, faster and faster. You are moaning now, panting, pushing back against me as I thrust, until finally we both come.
"That was quite an introduction," you say. "Now what?" We stand; I had fucked my way out of my shoes and slacks, which are on the floor. You are still wearing your dress, but all the buttons have come undone and your breasts are out.
"Here's how it's going to be." I say this not in a difficult or nasty tone, simply stating a fact. "I tell you what to do, and you do everything I say."
After a moment's hesitation, you say, "OK. What do you want me to do?"
