I was already clenching my jaw. I was damned near growling, actually.
I would control myself — for now — but she really shouldn’t have made me wait this long.
I focused on what still needed to happen first.
I had invited her to this lunch. I was therefore hosting, technically, so I arrived at the restaurant early. I chose a table outside, under an umbrella, to showcase our Miami winter for my tourist friend. It was probably a bit silly. I knew Morocco didn’t lack for sunshine, breezes, and beaches. Still, I wanted to set the stage correctly, and this was right.
I sat down as the waiter set menus on the table, poured water, and started rambling. I smiled and nodded… but I wasn’t listening. Keeping my composure was going to be more difficult than I had expected. My guest certainly wouldn’t notice; I was as experienced at these types of meetings as she was inexperienced. But still… the wait. I wanted her, and it was affecting me.
Twenty minutes later — and ten minutes late — Maryam arrived. She got out of her Uber, thanked the driver. She spotted me from the sidewalk, smiled her girlish smile, and walked toward me in the uniform I had seen her in so many times on Snapchat: a loose cotton v-neck t-shirt, coral this time, and tight little jeans. Her shoes, sunglasses, and modest earrings added the slightest touch of elegance to the casual outfit, and all of the colors she wore accentuated her copper skin, long black hair, and almond eyes. She was a smart girl, sophisticated for a girly 23-year-old, and she knew what looked good on her. As simple as they were, her clothes fit her personality just as well as her jeans fit her skinny thighs.
She paid attention to detail… which is why I knew that her slender frame would be accentuated by perfect lingerie underneath those simple clothes.
I couldn’t stop thinking about that lingerie all morning, and not just for the obvious reasons. In my mind, I was sure she had agonized over whether to put on the lingerie when she got dressed in her hotel room that morning. After two years of talking, her in Morocco, me in Miami, I knew her well. She would be honest enough to realize that putting on that lingerie signaled her willingness. That she probably shouldn’t do it; that the very fact that she was considering wearing lingerie at all meant she should rethink whether to meet me on this trip.
But she would dismiss those thoughts… and put on that lingerie. “It won’t hurt,” she’d think. “Just in case.” She would know that these were lies, and foolish ones at that… but she would allow her desire to get the best of her.
Maryam was Muslim, but not particularly religious even by Moroccan standards. She was a thoroughly-modern, combatively intellectual girl earning her Master’s degree back home. But she was traditional; conservative in ways. She kept the holidays, respected her parents, fasted on Ramadan. Her virginity still mattered. It should have gone to a Muslim boyfriend back home. Under ideal circumstances, even to a husband on their wedding night. It definitely, definitely wasn’t supposed to go to me.
I was a 35-year-old white American businessman with my own carefully considered, thoroughly irreligious set of ethics… ethics that, while sophisticated and rigid in their own way, permitted me to cheat on my wife, whom I loved deeply. Very rarely, and very selectively… but still. I was a married man, and by her own personal philosophy, Maryam should not have been going near me.
We had met on an anonymous chat app. She used it to vent and flirt, I used it to discreetly meet and screen potential affair partners. I didn’t usually talk to women on other continents, but she posted something funny about bad pick-up lines, and I was bored. I struck up a conversation with her… and we soon struck up a flirty friendship. We discussed our totally different lives. I was candid with her about my cheating and reasoning behind it; she was candid about her distaste for it. But we shared a sick sense of humor and a love of honest debate about important topics. She also loved hearing about my sexual adventures despite her objections to them. My deeply dominant side, the women I seduced, the submissives I put over my knee and tied up. She was unrepressed and loved learning about and discussing sex, despite being a virgin who had never been able to bring herself to orgasm… though certainly not for lack of trying. I flirted with her shamelessly, and she teased back just as shamelessly. She often admitted to touching herself while talking to me, and I silently hoped to bring her to her first orgasm with my words alone. It wasn’t to be.
I regularly invited her to visit me in the U.S. as we spoke. She always laughingly refused, despite constantly bemoaning the sorry state of her love life. Eventually, she found a boyfriend, an older student in another city in Morocco whom she liked and trusted. After months with him, she told me that she expected him to take her virginity. I was happy for her, and I had always known that my ideas of having her weren’t much more than a fantasy… but I was still deeply disappointed.
Three months into her relationship with her boyfriend, she found out that he was a player. He was flirting with other girls, and probably cheating, though the distinction didn’t matter to Maryam. He was something other than the boy he was supposed to be, and that dishonesty was enough for her to break things off. She cried a little, but she was frustrated, mostly.
In a few weeks she had righted herself emotionally, but she still needed a break. And she was more frustrated than ever before. By her relationship, by men. By her standards, her virginity, her inexperience, her pent-up needs. It was at that time that she planned her trip to the U.S., a welcome relief brought on by her career: she wanted to hunt for internships in her field here.
She mentioned the trip to me as she planned it, but she was unusually vague about details. I knew she was grappling with whether to meet me. I didn’t bring it up; pressure from me would not have brought her closer. Finally, reluctantly, she admitted that she planned to spend two days in Miami during the trip.
Knowing me… knowing what I wanted… it was clear. She never would have told me this unless she wanted it too. I immediately invited her to meet me for lunch, and she accepted… leading to now. To her standing just feet in front of me.
Still… the wait. It wasn’t wise to keep a man like me waiting that long.
I smiled, rose to greet her. We both took off our sunglasses, and I gave her a casual hug and a kiss on the cheek that lingered. I inhaled her… she smelled fresh, just the faintest bit floral. I pulled her chair out and she moved like the nervous girl she was as she sat in it.
When meeting someone in real life for the first time after developing a relationship online, there is always some cobweb of awkwardness to swat away before proceeding… but something sick inside me — the sadist, likely — enjoys this. So I sat back in my chair, smirked, and silently looked into her eyes for a minute. She smiled back, likely aware of what I was doing… but that didn’t stop it from working. She shifted in her seat, her self-consciousness blooming under the heat of my gaze. “Stop it,” she said. Her mousy, French-accented English was even more disarming in person than it had been over the internet for all these months. I grinned… and waiting long enough to make it clear that her commands were never commands to me. And then I began our conversation.
It was easy enough to break the tension… that tension, at least. We talked quickly, first about her trip so far, then about the menu as we ordered, then about her interviews as we ate. But the real tension, the real reason we were both there, burned slowly under our friendly talk. Each of us broke out into sly smiles here and there. Any passerby who noticed us would have known what game we were playing. But that didn’t make it any less fun.
We finished lunch and I paid the bill. I smiled and proposed going for a walk. She accepted. I guided her silently toward the beach from the restaurant. Eventually, I pointed toward a cool, shadowed alley on the way, and we walked toward it. Once there, I took her hand. She stopped abruptly, shocked, wondering if it was starting now.
It was.
I stepped in front of her, an inch from her, and looked into her eyes, to her frozen expression of anticipation. And I kissed her. Holding her head. She stiffened and resisted, almost reflexively, almost ceremoniously. But I held her head to mine in my hands, and her mouth soon opened for me. She began to kiss back… and she melted. Her body slackened and she leaned into me. She didn’t even realize when I stopped holding her head to mine, when my hands drifted down to her waist. When I started holding her gently. And she began to kiss back harder, hungrily.
We lingered like that for minutes. I hailed an Uber and we got in, kissing in the backseat as we rode to the hotel I had already booked and checked into for this very purpose. A good, modern place; excellent sheets, a big bed.
We walked through the hotel toward our room. She was nervous, quaking here and there. I made fun of her, and she laughed. But I held her little hand, and she followed without resistance.
I unlocked and opened the door to the airy room and pulled her in. She admired it; she wasn’t rich back home, but she had excellent taste and high standards, and I knew she appreciated the place. I led her to the center of the room, with space all around her, and put my hands on her waist, firmly. My grip told her to stop and stand, and she obeyed.
I stepped in front of her and pulled her into me, gripping her ass through her jeans as I kissed her again. Just as she started to melt again, as her last memories of protest faded… I pulled my face away from hers.
And I slapped her.
Not too hard… it helps to have practice. But enough to make it sting. She winced, and her mouth opened in silent shock, but her eyes didn’t leave mine.
“For making me wait, Maryam… Now… You’re mine.”
I stepped back a foot, looking her up and down. I set my hands at the collar of her shirt and easily ripped the “v,” tearing a straight line down the entire front. I would get her a new shirt later or give her one of mine. I hardly cared.
I pulled her gutted shirt back around her shoulders, exposing her bra. I was right, of course. It was black, lacy, and fit her small breasts perfectly. Her frame was so slight that I had always assumed her breasts would be tiny. They weren’t, at least not in that bra.
My eyes went dark and my jaw stiffened. I grabbed her bra straps and pulled them down around her elbows, flipping the cups off of her breasts. They were small, but perfect… unbelievably buoyant; sometime later I would have to explain to this girl how blessed she was. But for now, I leaned down and reached around her, squeezing her torso. My tongue was instantly on her right nipple. Hungrily. Licking, biting gently. Groping her with one hand while I continued pulling her into me. I have taken virginities before, and I was always very gentle when I did. But not this time. This time I wouldn’t restrain myself, focus solely on her, put on a pleasant performance for the benefit of a naive audience. Today, I would loosen the leash on my rougher instincts enough for Maryam to see exactly how much I wanted her.
I moved my head back from her chest, turning to look up into her eyes. I grabbed her wet nipple and twisted it, slowly, as I clamped it harder and harder between my thumb and forefinger. She closed her eyes, took in a breath, let it out slowly and shook… and melted a little more as she did.
My lips traveled down her chest toward her perfect waist. I had never seen her nude; she was 5’4 and she had told me that she weighed 84 pounds, so I didn’t expect many curves. I was wrong about that, too. She had a petite but perfectly feminine body. I admired it and kissed slowly down toward her belly button… but my right hand reached up, grabbing her throat. I gripped firmly, lifting her chin, but not hard enough to cut off her breath… at least, not more than her own fear and excitement had already cut off. She was shaking, and letting out the tiniest moan.
My head was at her jeans now, and I could feel a faint touch of her heat escaping against my face. I looked up at her, her eyes now closed, unable to take in all of her senses… and I smirked.
Slowly, very slowly, I unbuttoned her jeans and pulled down her zipper, without moving my eyes from her face. She was flustered, her cheeks red. Nervous. More turned-on than she had been in her life; that was a guess on my part, but a well-educated one. I exposed the top of her panties, lacy and black again, a low cut that rode her hips. I felt the hot breath of her pussy on my skin. And… I stopped.
I separated from her, rose to my feet. Walked around her slowly, an arms length from her, circling her like a shark circles prey. She opened her eyes and nervously followed me with them. Her neck swiveled as I circled her once… twice… my eyes on every part of her. She stood there, her shirt ripped, her bra around her arms, her pants open at the top, sagging on her hips.
After two more circuits, I stepped in close from behind her, grabbing the hair at the base of her scalp in one hand, her throat in the other. I tipped her face up to me and put my face next to hers, my lips at her ear. “Now… I want to taste you, virgin.”
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/6mmpmt/she_shouldnt_have_made_me_wait_so_long_1_of_3_mf