A song is simply a spell put to music. Music, itself, is a powerful, wordless incantation, a synergy of the heart, soul, and mind weaving itself around the lyrics, both of them empowering the other. It tugs at your essence, evoking powerful emotions and states of mind. There is an undeniable, seductive magic to a song. This is why musicians tend to be passionate, memorable lovers. Their seductive magic permeates all they do with passion.

Likewise, seduction is its own kind of magic, similar to a song or at least a dance. True, soul-consuming seduction is not mere words; flirtatious phrases, a touch or caress, or visual delight are but a paltry few of the instruments of seduction. Individually, they are sweet, soulful, and heartwarming, but, together, in tandem, they create a symphony of arousing discourse, an orchestra of desire. Those rare few, conductors of the symphony of seduction, play the orchestra for your carnal bliss, a virtuoso’s solo performed upon your flesh.

But, alas, very few people, men or women, fully understand that the joyous art of seduction is the sum of the whole, not a lone technique. When the would-be Casanova has mastered the magical song of seduction, dancing an overheated tango to the thundering pulse of your passion, the universe shrinks, only encompassing that singular moment, every word hypnotically arousing, each touch setting your nerves on horny fire. Those blessed few are the ones that make the symphonic dance of seduction its own magic and you, the lucky recipient.

Within that tiny subsection of truly accomplished seducers, all of them wonderful and rare, there are a sparse few, so adept that their seductive prowess borders on the magical, who project a hypnotic, intense aura of passionate sexuality, one of such intensity that women are immediately drawn to them, hurling themselves at him with wild, horny abandon. From her first glance to her final parting words, such seducers hold ladies deeply in their thrall, reducing her to a quivering, needy mass of wanton heat, perverted desires, and giddy enamorment. 

This poetry of the soul permeates all these sorts say, do, or even think. From their always handsome, sexy exterior to the most minuscule motes of their soul, they play their songs of passion for all to experience, radiating horny arousal, sexual allure, and a magical aura that draws others to them. They are the vibrant flame, and women, helpless against their charisma, are but moths, inexplicably and helplessly drawn.

These treasured few have no need to pursue romance; it charges toward them, headlong, with wild, slutty abandon. While others try every gimmick, approach, or line, these poetic, enthralling, and very rare few are, naturally and instinctively, the ones who have mastered the fine, subtle, magical art of radiating charm. As Albert Camus has said, charm is the art of getting the answer, “Yes,” before a question has even been posed. A wink, a nod, a smile, or even a sideways glance is all it takes for women to prostrate themselves before him, begging and pleading for his attention.

He was such a man, but mere words could not describe his personal magnetism or overwhelming aura of hypnotic sensuality. Solely based upon his countenance and bearing, he would have no shortage of feminine interest, but there are myriad things in addition to one’s attractiveness that make an individual sexy. With him, the gods gave more than generously, and they kept on giving. Although disconcertingly self-aware, comprehension of his true charisma, the force of his essence, was either lost on him or ignored. For all intents, he was utterly oblivious of his effect upon women. Perhaps, that was part of his endless charm.

Medium blond hair in lazy, unruly strands danced around his finely chiseled, masculine features, descending past his shoulders. His hypnotic, multicolored, hazel eyes, edged with vibrancy, pierced the soul. A muscular, symmetrical visage, including prominent, sexy cheekbones, kissable lips with a slight pout, and brilliant teeth that shone through his crooked-but-charming, roguish smile gave him an imp-like sense of mirth, his jovial, deep personality endlessly buttressing that initial impression. No matter the woman’s preference, just his face was a horny vision that elicited a passion-laden, sexual response.

His body looked and felt as if a master artist had sculpted him from the finest, smoothest, hard marble. Muscle-bound to the point of perfection—not grotesquely overblown, just perfectly chiseled to make mouths and pussies drool—broad shoulders gave way to an extremely well-defined chest, then tapered down to a tiny, envy-inducing waist, a ribbed abdomen adding contours. From top to bottom, front, and back, Glevin was one of the few men that stunned women, the mere sight of him churning up slutty, horny desire and the overpowering compulsion to act on those primal feelings.

Kindred to sexy-looking women the world over, albeit nonplussed by the phenomenon, Glevin could seldom walk more than a few paces without some woman throwing herself at him. In his subjective reality, women were simply like that; to Glevin, women were amazing, unique creatures, filled with astounding intellects, and they were always horny and sexually wild. He was, of course, ignorant to the fact that such sorts of aggressively aroused behavior didn’t apply to more than one in a million men, if even that many. He was just one of them and never saw a reason to question reality.

Seated alone at a small table in a quaint, Bohemian-type bar, Glevin nursed a drink, a simple, honeyed rum, and partook of his favorite pastime, observing humanity in the wild. To the casual eye, he seemed a bit anachronistic, dressed in worn and faded jeans that, somehow, enhanced his natural sexiness, and a crinkly, linen shirt, in black with a V-neck, that accentuated his fine, pussy-drenching, manly physique. His ever-present moccasins adorned his feet, giving him a free-spirit, hippie vibe. Glevin’s appearance and demeanor gave an overpowering “charming rogue leader of the rebellion” mien, and, although alone and sitting quietly away from the crowd, he was instantly noteworthy, not cut from the same cloth as the rest of his peers. 

Women, while accomplished seducers, tend to be ill-equipped to handle one such as Glevin, especially on the emotional level. Used to generic men parroting trite pickup lines and fending off crass and too-aggressive advances, most women have “a type” of man that they hold in their mind’s eye as a potential mate. Brandishing their lengthy suitor-requirements before them as if they were swords, shields, and armor, women defend themselves against the relentless onslaught of unwanted sexual attention by citing their self-imposed criteria. “You’re not my type,” is, typically, the first line of defense.

For most women, there’s a burning need to feel something special before any potential Lothario gets a second glance. Men, being visually aroused, falling all over themselves to potentially bed an attractive woman, is the commonest trope in history. With one hand on their dicks and another on their wallets, most guys will try, say, or do anything if they felt it would help them get laid. One of the universe’s more cruel bits of irony is that while men get into a rutting state of horny desire by merely looking at an attractive person, women need mental and emotional stimulation before any visual delights have an impact—at least usually. There are those scant few people in the world that short-circuit every bit of mental and emotional wiring a woman possesses; then, all bets are off, and the woman’s “type” is forgotten. 

If the man is handsome, charismatic, or just has that seductive aura about him, all women’s preferences, criteria, requisites, and trepidation disintegrate. Indescribable, the effects of a masterful seducer, playing her heartstrings like a virtuoso, are legion. Gone is the quiet reserve where she gives subtle signals, hoping to be chased. How to act like a respectable lady is forgotten, such notions imprisoned in the darkest retreats of her psyche. All the woman’s poise, self-respect, and polite decency are eradicated, making room for her primal, sexual urges and all-consuming emotions to have free rein. 

For Tori, whose full name was Victoria, the night began as most, with her dolling herself up for nobody in particular and heading out to a local bar for some fun conversation, girl-girl bonding, and drinking with her friends. It was their bi-weekly ritual, a tradition since the days of high school when boys were the main topic of conversation. As adults, they now spoke about life’s travails—and men. While she wasn’t looking for love or even sex, lust-charged lightning struck her the moment she saw him. 

Akin to going tharn, Tori lost several talents, simultaneously; the emotional impact of seeing a man like that rended her heart, soul, and consciousness. The ability to form coherent words fled her mind, making her stammer and stutter, mid-sentence. Her heart proved quantum states by stopping and thundering at once. Tori’s mind reeled, then splintered away, proving all the vapid blonde jokes true; the only thought her lust-addled brain could conjure was, I need to get him in my bed.

Physically, the tall, statuesque beauty’s reaction could readily be gauged. Her breath sharpened, her pulse quickened, her temperature increased to volcanic, and her eyes bulged out as she dropped her jaw, staring at the sexiest, most perfect man to ever cross her field of vision. Her logical, cooler self remained, somehow disembodied from the rest of her. It was as if she were watching a movie of herself, aware of her actions, screaming at herself to stop acting like a horny, stupid fool, but unable to make herself stop.

Mentally lecturing herself to not approach, her feet moved of their own accord, taking her nubile, shapely body toward the sexiest, most pussy-drenching man that she’d ever seen. The eternal clash between the spirit and mind, body and heart, is a battlefield wrought with self-conflicting peril. Tori’s cynical mind bellowed at her, telling her to leave him be, as any man that looked like that was either a narcissistic ego-maniac, taken, or not into women. Still, her footfalls propelled her forward. Her heart sang that it was love at first sight, all while her more mature self laughed at her romantic childishness.

Another, darker portion of her psyche shrieked terrified warnings. Tori was, according to her inner demons, voluntarily giving up her advantage and power by presenting herself to this charming man who seemed to glow with sensual power. Pussy Power be damned—she was smitten. Nonetheless, her mind in a dreamlike trance, her body controlled by desire, she approached him from the side, nearly stalking him as if she were a predator readying her fatal pounce.

It was then as if he could see behind his back, as she was approaching him tangentially, nervously, that he turned his head to face her. She’d seen his face, although her eyes couldn’t stop roaming over his sexy, muscular body, but she hadn’t been subjected to the dazzling, hypnotic allure of his crooked, roguish smile. 

Tori had participated in some amazing sex in her life, the kind of sex that leaves one sighing in delight, the endorphins still coursing through her soul. She’d enjoyed extended foreplay where her body melted into a furious bonfire of lusty pleasure. His quick, appraising, and comprehending smile made those blissful, sensual memories pale in comparison. Somehow, he had wordlessly, instantly projected his song of seduction, a personal symphony of bliss and desire, into her heart, mind, and soul. Its rhythm and tempo matched her thundering pulse, and the portents it promised caressed her inner essence.

How one reacts to a stranger’s approach conveys an infinite amount of information about the person. Poise, body language, posture, facial expressions, and physiological responses communicate the person’s ego, confidence, social adeptness, and whether the person is a threat or feels uneasy are all communicated, although we instinctively evaluate all of this, instantly. Tori was used to being leered at, drooled over, and objectified, which is something all attractive women, especially if they’re blondes, have to endure. She was not, however, even remotely prepared for the way his mirth-filled, handsomely chiseled face and radiant, gleaming smile affected her.

His eyes seemed brilliant from a distance, but, when he raised his eyes to meet her sheepish face, it was as if Tori’s very soul exploded in rapture. Hazel, the color that is a mixture of other hues, relegated to being solely used to describe indescribable eyes, would be the layperson’s term, but the word served no justice to the alluring, hypnotic intensity of his orbs. A mixture of gray, steel blue, light umber, and glittering, green flecks. His eyes shot out radiant beams of erotic, soul-absorbing intensity; his gaze, in a microsecond, shredded her personality into minuscule shards, and he absorbed them all, as if he could see into her heart, knowing her true drive and desires, and loved what he encountered.

The poetry of his soul melded with hers, and, for a brief moment, just from meeting eyes, she felt weightless, desired, appreciated, and understood. Tori’s knees lost their ability to hold her upright, and she felt erotic heat, the most intense arousal she’d ever known, scorching her innards. His stare grabbed her by the heartstrings, tugged at her mind, pulling her into the protective shroud of his powerful, pussy-drenching presence, and caressed her emotions, heightening them into a needy state of obsessive addiction.

As her soul screamed in ecstatic rapture, his roguish grin, conveying confidence, mirth, strength of character, and naughty, torrid sensuality, sent waves of vibrating bliss cascading over her flesh. Victoria could only toss her long mane back, exposing a shoulder and, hopefully, making her breasts jiggle enticingly, as a sensation similar to but more intense than most of the orgasms she’d had in her life ambushed her body. His expression, one of lusty invitation coupled with respect and understanding, alerted her that he instinctively knew everything about her. It was as if they were connected on some primal, cosmic level, the two of them kindred spirits, meeting for the first time but immediately recognizing that their fates were intertwined.

Less than one Eros-dripping, thundering heartbeat had passed, and Tori’s reality was upended, countering everything she knew about romance, seduction, and even herself. Rather than mentally debating if he was her type, somebody she might be interested in, or an absolute creep—her usual tack—the woman’s brain, forgetting her collegiate education and sense of poised self-control, willfully threw herself at Glevin, her desirous needs possessing her college-educated brain, taking control of her body and speech.

“Um, what are you drinking, and are you going to order me one?” Tori’s mouth erupted, stammers and the tonality of complete embarrassment peppering her ill-conceived opening volley.

Fucking moron! Tori men tall chastised herself. She knew that she was physically attractive. Usually, that was enough to make the men flock to her. This time, though, the man didn’t respond as he should have. Instead, staring with his mouth agape, enthralled and mesmerized by her sexy body, amazing, firm ass, and nearly perfect features, his roguish smile widened into one of sincere mirth, as if he were delighted with her faux pas but unwilling to humiliate her by acknowledging her social blundering.

His head tilted to one side, ever so slightly, as his gaze roamed over her, scanning her from head to toe and back up, once more. That little movement, his neck barely slanting, had a devastating, visual effect on Victoria. Most women aren’t immediately turned on by seeing something erotic or arousing unless they’re already in the mood. While her mind denied it, as the implications that this amazing, charismatic man hadn’t uttered a single syllable, and he’d already enslaved her were just too unsettling, her heart knew it was true. Her soul sang over his attention, and his intense and total focus was on her. 

Still, the overall gesture and following brazen, sexual appraisal, stunned her into heated, lust-filled confusion. The way his long hair waved in the ether, so sexy and shiny, reminded her of a field of grain billowing slowly in a Summer breeze. The way his eyes, as she noted how they burned with a unique sexuality, openly feasted on her, no creepiness or aggression, just appreciation, felt like erotic, vibrating fingers expertly manipulating her libido to the bursting point. In the few milliseconds his wanton, visual appraisal consumed, Tori realized that he was out of her league, but she still hoped that he wouldn’t reject her.

Physically and mentally, her reaction to his leer was purely sexual. It wasn’t just the arousal one felt after she met somebody she thought was pretty, good-looking, or sexually attractive and then discovered that they got along well. It was her primitive, primal essence, freed from society’s restraints, overruling her conditioned behavior, and running amok in her soul. The twenty-eight-year-old woman’s pussy erupted with a geyser of hot wetness when he scanned her legs, obviously loving what he saw.

As his eyes traveled upward, searing the image of her hips and molten sex hole into his mind, Tori found herself fantasizing about grabbing his beautiful handsome head with both hands and humping her pussy against his mouth. He took in her curves as she struggled to breathe, suddenly aware that her heart was beating loudly and quickly in her chest. When his soulful, gray-rimmed, hazel eyes reached her breasts, the smitten woman reflexively jutted her boobs up and out, her nipples growing taut so fast, a warm tingle shooting from them and heading straight down to her clit, that rubbing ice over them would have taken several times longer to achieve the same crinkly, swollen state.

Although her flesh felt as if micro-electric shocks were sparking all over her body, her panties felt as if they were filled with boiling fluid, and her tits had engorged to the point of tingling vibration, those sensations demoting the best sex she’d had in her life to a far, distant second place in her list of the most amazing, erotic experiences of her life, she wasn’t prepared for the full impact.

When his face raised to hers, all of his sexually charged, romantic, glances were revealed to only be teasers. Those erotic, blissful, horny feelings, more powerful than anything she’d ever felt, erupted with nuclear force. His face, posture, and some undefinable, abstract, ephemeral mote of his mind conveyed absolute knowledge of who she was as a person. It was as if he could read her mind, knew her soul, and had somehow understood everything about her. Victoria, blinking her eyes in the hopes that he’d like the pale blueness of them, could only imagine that if he was that insightful within the first second, he’d give her the best sex ever.

Still, her tamed, society-indoctrinated self attempted to usurp passion’s chaotic control and shove her back into reality. You’re not going to fuck him! No, no, no. That part of her being shouted to her mostly-vacant mind. Yes, I am! Her unfettered and completely wild sexual self responded. I’m going to fuck him until one of us breaks.

“Sit,” he said, his pussy-drenching, crooked smile turning to an amused, conspiratorial smirk.

His left arm casually raised, making Tori’s breath catch in her lungs as she saw his muscles ripple beneath his exotic and sexy, linen shirt. Some of the light from the bar’s mood lighting shone through the thin fabric, outlining the sinewy bulges of his fortitude in shadow. His strong-seeming hand, the type that would hold her when disaster struck, keep her safe when danger threatened, and ignite her flesh with every touch, swept in an inviting gesture, motioning toward the empty chair across from him.

“I’d love to share my little corner of the world with you. What should I call you? The Divine Goddess with the sunlight-kissed hair seems fitting, but is a little cumbersome on the lips.” He gave her a sexy wink, stressing the word “lips” in a way that made it echo in her core, although the inflection was too subtle to be noted.

Dumbstruck, Tori’s mind reeled. Glevin didn’t merely speak, his vocalizations carried a score of conversations, intimacy, and emotion to her ears. Her mind splintered; absorbing all the implications in those few words split her brain into warring splinters, each one at odds with the other. In a few, meager sentences and a single look, he’d given her permission to join him, conveyed appreciation, respect, and open desire, and complimented her in a manner that circumvented the usual pickup line cheesiness, showing that he was speaking about all of her, her essence, heart, and mind, not just her amazing tits or perfect ass. She felt seen, truly and completely understood, and it melted her heart, blasting the last vestiges of self-imposed restraint to oblivion.

Attempting to appear relaxed, confident, and aloof, Victoria smoothed out her mid-length skirt and sat. She giggled nervously when her ladylike seating ended with a soft thud. Tori raked her mind in search of something witty to say. No man delivers that much depth, instantly like that, unless he is also profoundly deep. She had to wow him since she failed to be captivating when she first inserted her manicured foot into her mouth.

“You can call me anything you’d like,” she said, immediately lambasting herself for being a slutty, pliable idiot. “Um, guess my name.”

“Katarina,” Glevin said, gesturing to the redheaded bartender whose eyes, unsurprisingly, were solely on him. “Two more, please, my perfect muse of bliss.”

“Uh-huh,” the redheaded, smitten woman responded, her head bobbing vigorously up and down, although she didn’t, otherwise, move; she just stared at him with a dreamy look in her eyes.

Glevin addressed Victoria, his face a mask of sensual, impish mirth, his eyes seducing her, effortlessly. Tori was taken further aback. Nobody had ever held that sort of power over her. She felt that it wasn’t intentional, just how he was, and the fact that it was at odds with every other person she’d met in her entire life just made him more intriguing and beguiling. 

“I could guess your name,” he quipped. His tone was smooth, even, seductive, and with just the right combination of emotions, inflection, and power. He was a man in complete control of his life and destiny, and all of his attention was on her. “But it would be a waste of time, as you don’t seem to be the type to go by their given name, I’d fathom. You’re the nickname type.”

“What,” she retorted, her voice finally finding some strength instead of the warbling timbre it had previously adopted. “Are you psychic or something?”

He laughed at that, genuinely amused at her humor. His joviality spread to her, and Tori smiled along with him, feeling warm inside, scalding hot between her thighs, and that tingling sensation devouring her body, inside and out, made it certain that she’d need multiple orgasms before the night had ended.

“Yes,” he teased back, his mirthful smile turning mischievous, naughty, and passionate. He gazed into her eyes as if studying her.

The blonde fidgeted in her seat, clamping her thighs together, truly worried that steam would rise. There was no doubt that he was piercing her soul or that she not only loved it, she wanted to feel like that forever.  

If this is eye-fucking, I want more! Stop it, you slut. You’re breaking every rule in the book. Do not tell him that you want to fuck him, need to feel him inside you.”

“You dirty girl,” he guffawed, either finishing his joke or proving his ESP claims. “I like it.” Those last three words shunted aside her trepidation, and the horny woman felt her arousal increase exponentially as she bit her lip to stave off a broad, proud smile. 

“Guess! My real name is Victoria.”

“You’re not the Vickie type,” he mused, his voice dripping with sexual honey. “Victoria, while complex, doesn’t begin to approach all the marvelous layers and complexity that are you. Vic is right out. Tor? Maybe with the “I” to give it an extra syllable.”

“Your drinks, Glevin,” the bartender, Katarina, said, plopping down the drinks and positioning herself so she obstructed his view of Tori. “If you want anything else, just say it, and I’m all yours.” She reached out and touched his arm, her fingertips running over his bicep and a horny look of lust on her too-perfect face.

Tori shot the woman a withering stare, warning her off, which the bartender ignored. He smiled one of his pussy-melting smiles at the obviously horny redhead, which made Victoria toss her blond hair about to catch his attention, jealous that his intense, sexually-charged focus wasn’t solely on her.

“Correct and astute,” she replied, pondering shoving the bartender back toward the bar. “And your name is Glevin? I’ve never heard that before. What sort of silly name is that?”

“The silliest name of all silly names,” he laughed, nonplussed at her insult.

Victoria was ashamed of herself. Proper ladies do not chase guys, nor do they allow themselves to be reduced to a quivering mass of needy horniness at a glance. She did. She loved it, too. It was bad enough that his looks, eyes, and disposition made her squirm, undeniable lust filling her mortal coil, but his intriguing and mysterious personality, plus the fact that he was so easy to talk with and open up to, made her do more than chase him. She found herself using all the ploys, tricks, and innuendo that guys do when they’re trying to make a woman horny.

As one drink turned to many, her friends long forgotten, Tori found herself gleefully responding to his comments, volunteering things about herself that she’d never told to a single soul, let alone a guy she just met. She, not he, was the one who steered the conversation toward sexuality. Tori made the first move, the second, then continued but stopped counting. She brought up the topic of lovers or being in a relationship, stressing that she was completely available.

Although embarrassed that a dreamy, sexy man, who just happened to get her, understand and comprehend her personal intricacies and self-=conflicting ideals, and instinctively knew how to not only say and do the perfect thing but also make it sexual, could enslave her, body, heart, and soul, like that, she soldiered on.

“Tell me, Glevin,” she purred, having abandoned any pretense of being coy. “You can tell a lot about a person by their preferences for their lover’s clothing.” It was a lie; she’d never heard of such a thing. “So, tell me what sort of panties you find the sexiest on a woman.”

He laughed, saluting her with a toast of his drink cup, and settled back, folding his arms. Tori's breath returned to her body, sharply, in mid-exhale. Never before had just the physical appearance of somebody made her so aroused. The fact that his biceps bulged delightfully, was just more fuel to the burning inferno between her nectar-slickened thighs.

“Tori doesn’t sound like the name of somebody who’d wear granny panties.” His voice was sultry, sexy, and seductive and still filled with non-aggressive mirth. His tone made it sound complimentary—he wasn’t trying to bed her, just voicing his opinion. “Something sexy for you, I’d imagine. But, that’s not what you asked me.”

“Tell me.” Her voice was playful, pleading, and a little desperate.

“To me, and I only speak for myself, I think that nothing separating your perfect, smooth, divine flesh from your outer shroud is perfect. The sexiest undergarments are none at all.”

As if she were being controlled by another being—a scandalous slut—her mind switched off. Tori just smiled, rising off her seat slightly. Every fiber of her being that hadn’t been imprisoned by her lusty zeal screamed for her to not do what she had in mind. She ignored her emotional protests, her lust rounding up the remaining naysayers in her psyche, imprisoning them. Not even bothering to hide her actions, she dramatically reached under her flowing, lace-trimmed skirt, the paisley distorting as her hands traveled beneath it, and stripped off her white thong panties. With a victorious flourish, she gently tossed them onto the table.

“Am I sexy enough for you, now?”

“You are so incredibly, perfectly sexy that the gods, themselves, must be jealous. Panties or not, your outer shell is the second most attractive thing about you.”

“Second? Don’t you like my ass, my tits?”

“I love them both, and the rest of you, but your physical appearance is a distant second to the rest of you. You are fascinating, enthralling, and infinitely interesting.”

“Let’s go someplace private,” she suggested.

“No,” he responded without a pause. 

Tori went on. “We could go to my place…wait! Did you just say no to sex with me?” she was crestfallen but determined. “Why not?“

He pointed at the table. “You’ve had three drinks and may be intoxicated. I cannot take advantage.”

“Honor? Chivalry? What the fuck, Glevin. If you don’t want me, just say so.”

“My desire for you is boundless, endless. There is no scale large enough to measure the volume of my lust for you.”

He just said that he lusts after me! Was the thought that echoed through her mind. “That’s so unfair! Are we going to fuck or not? I’m sober enough.”

“Sorry,” he shrugged in a manner that made her pussy gush, his face conjuring visions of the two of them locked in a passionate embrace. “I don’t fuck anyone who’s intoxicated unless sex was a foregone conclusion prior to imbibing.”

“Fine.” She sighed as if Atlas had just asked her to shoulder his load while he took a coffee break. Then, an epiphany stuck. “Give me your phone.”

She put her name and number into his contacts, jealous to the point of having an insecurity-induced seizure when the lengthy list of contact was, primarily, women.

“Text me, now,” she commanded, her voice finding some confidence. 

“Let’s finish our drinks, first,” he responded, ignoring her plea as if he knew that doing so would increase her heat. “Then, I’ll text you something naughty,” he smiled.

They finished, not that Tori wanted to release him from her presence. Being in proximity to him was uplifting, inspiring, and so sensual that she realized that she’d become addicted to him in just an hour or so. Forlornly, Tori finished her drink and bade him goodbye.

“He’s not going to text me,” she said to herself as she left, frustrated. She realized that she’d left her panties on the table, but didn’t dare go back to face the embarrassment of acting like an immoral slut with zero self-respect. Instead, she went to her car, feeling her pussy’s hot juices running down her legs. She’d never been so turned on in her life, and he hadn’t even touched her.

She could touch herself, and that’s exactly what she did as soon as her car’s door latched shut. Violently thrusting one foot on top of the dashboard as she spread her legs, thankful that she’d removed her soaked panties, Tori thrust three fingers inside her molten, pouring cunt and finger-fucked herself with wild abandon as her other hand assaulted her clit, addressing her urgent, horny needs.

Her subcompact car’s windows steamed over with the heat of her panting breath; the car rocked as she forcibly thrust her soaked fingers as deeply into her velvety tunnel as they could go. Tori’s clit had been pulsing with desire since she first laid eyes on him, but now, the lightest grazing of her fingertip sent shocking, erotic jolts through her body, so intense that they permeated her internal essence, making her scream. In less than two minutes, a soul-shattering, body-consuming orgasm began welling up inside her overheating innards.

Just then, her phone, hastily cast onto the passenger seat, lit up and vibrated. The text message, only two words, was from him. She glanced at it as her orgasm could be denied no longer. Tori screamed at the top of her lungs, her car violently rocking back and forth, as an orgasm of such power and intensity that her heart ceased thundering and the universe melted away into nothing but pure, unadulterated bliss remained crashed through her.

‘Something Naughty,’ was his message.

Tori’s super-intense orgasm left her limp, feeling like she was floating on air and in dire need of more.

‘Funny fucker, aren’t you? I’ll show you naughty tomorrow when we go out.’

Tori didn’t even wait for a response. As soon as she sent that text, her fingers hammered away on her phone, soaking the screen with her cum. ‘My place, 8 pm.’ 

She then sent him her address, which was against her personal rules. She never let anyone she was seeing know where she lived until after the second date. That helped to weed out the freaks and stalker types, the undesirables. She also never volunteered herself for sex until at least after the third date. With him, she fought down voicing the invitation until halfway through her third drink, less than two hours. He had stolen her pussy power, turned her, somehow, into his wanton sex slave, pining away for him, and she was happy about it.

‘As you wish, my divine Goddess with the sun-kissed hair.’

That was all it took, and Tori felt all that hot, needy arousal flow back into her, only more intense. She didn’t care that other people were now in the parking lot and could see her; she had to cum, again. In truth, mainly because she held the vision of him in her mind’s eye, she needed two more orgasms before she felt calm enough to start her car’s engine and drive home.

To be continued…