Me gustan las pendejas -que disfrutan señores mayores-

I like the girls who know how to enjoy older gentlemen. When I received your message, I did what I had to do: I canceled all meetings, passed on my schedule to the next day, suspended meetings, calls, and writings for tomorrow, because you know, there are things that can't be left behind. The message I received in the telegram was long but very precise: 'Maybe you know, but I'll tell you anyway. I chose my pseudonym because I am a goddess, and also because I am the daughter of Jupiter. I am, or want to be, the goddess of wisdom, arts, and war techniques. After all, what is sex but war between two bodies that want to clash in battle, and penetrate each other until they're exhausted? I'm young and my body burns, and when you write me, it's clear that you do so from real desire. You don't like virtual games, it's clear you're from another era. Because you know how to use words. You tell me things and make me hot. And I'm sure you also get hot because you say them from your own heat. For you, it's not a game. I know. It's a hunt. It's the prelude to a battle you really want to fight. You don't know that for me it's a game. That I enjoy it. That I get hot because my words excite you, and I'm proud to know that a big man with all your experience loses his time trying to lift me up. You'll never have me in your arms. I like masturbating thinking about you and your words, but my game ends here. You're a son of a slut who knows how to take me slow. Slowly. You're a very experienced hunter. You know that if you rush it, I'll disappear. You saw that time when I disappeared and reappeared with another disguise. This goddess disguise suits me well. I'm no longer the girl slut and hot one from before. Now everyone knows that to have me, they'll have to face a goddess who only wants to satisfy herself alone. They send me obscenities, stuck-up bitches, my pictures on their computers, with enormous cocks in front.' They pay me tributes. Like one deserves from a goddess. But with you it's different. There's something in your saying that makes real things happen in my body. You make me doubt. You pressure me. And I give in. And then I back off. I can't succumb to your seduction games. Even when talking to you is different. You leave me burning. The other night was a demonstration of that: showing you my cum after our dialogue left me crazy. Your hand full of cum. And I managed it alone, at a distance. Just with my words. Or almost just with them. Because I showed you pictures of my body. From my body. But good, now I have to confess what happened. I couldn't sleep much, thinking about your body, trembling, crossed by an orgasm that you gave yourself with your hands, but because of my words and my photos. I imagined myself on top of you, taking out your cum with my pussy, riding you. And it wasn't two or three. It was four jerks I had to give myself with my fingers to be able to fall asleep. And thinking about you like this, and thinking about myself like this, puts me at risk. It's a game, and here it ends. I don't want to take the risk of a real encounter. But I wake up in the morning, and I find myself thinking about you again, and I can't believe I'm thinking about a man, twenty years older than me. Nothing has anything to do with it. But I do two things, almost without thinking. I post a picture of my black thong in public, touching myself, because I know you'll comment. And you do, son of a thousand whores, publicly, exactly what I knew you would write. That there's nothing more delicious than self-pleasure.I like that you're persistent. But I also challenge you and leave a message on your cell phone. I did it on purpose, knowing I was playing with fire. Simply putting good morning, I'm hot to provoke your Let yourself go and without wasting time start developing a new scene, promising me that first encounter where you tie my hands with your tie, put me face down, naked, and wrap me in your hands and oils and massage my neck. And the risk increases when you read it, because after all, how good would a neck massage be for me right now, after so many days of studying, I have a miserable back. How do you, son of a slut, always know what I really need? You don't even know my face! I must confess: I like big men. You know where to attack. You talk about your strong hands, tracing my back from the column to the waist. You whisper things in my ear, or at least that's what I imagine when you read it, and I feel two hands on my back tracing me, and I start to get wet. I discover that I moan when you say you won't touch me until I'm trembling, until I beg, and you propose a caress for my legs, feet, thighs. And here's another confession: this provocation almost brings me to rub my breasts with my hands, and an electric current descends to my belly when I squeeze a nipple with two fingers. A moan escapes me, I hope they don't hear it from the other side of the door, but I can't believe I have hard nipples and you keep saying all the things you'd like to do to me, and I can't help putting my hand inside my pants and feeling how wet I am. How can I get this wet? And I bite my lips when my finger finds the clitoris. And I pull out my hand and close the door. I look at your new message that says you're going to rub my buttocks with that burning oil, like your hands, like my body. Give me a

Chirlo, I'm telling you, and you respond that it shouldn't be rebellious, that you'll give me a real chirlo, and I smile. I want to play with you, and I can't anymore, I'm burning. I take off my clothes and get under the sheets, and keep reading you, and my body shivers. I can't stop touching my pussy with my fingers, and I can't stop moaning. If only you could hear me as you make me come! Better not, let's see if you still think you have me in your hand and can do whatever you want with me. It scares me. It takes a lot of time to know it's true that you have me in your hand. But I can't, I can't. I don't know you. It's madness. You tell me you'll turn me around and be standing up, and open my legs by putting the tip of your cock on my clitoris, but not moving. Can you be so son of a slut to hold yourself back? You say my movements will make us rub against each other, and I'll beg for you to fuck me, and it's true, I'm begging to feel you inside me. You promise to support my hands on my breasts, and then firm, although slowly, you'll penetrate me, and when you have all your cock inside me, you'll start moving slowly, making circles with your hips over me. I can't take it anymore. I sink my fingers into my pussy. I'm almost at the point of cumming. I want you to keep going, please, and I discover myself begging, just as you predicted. You can't be more son of a slut. You touch me without touching me. It's like you're here, I want to tear you apart and let myself fall onto your cock, I want to feel it inside me while you suck my tits. I'm dying of pleasure. I feel the small death that runs through my body. From the center of my body to my neck, and from there descending down the entire spine. My head spins, an orgasm runs through my whole body, I let out a strong moan, I don't care if they hear me. I'm all wet. And the sheets, and I end up like a slut, like a slut, like a sexy girl. No, like a goddess. Like the goddess of wars I am.And you, who are a big sir, make me cum from the cell phone. I'm left trembling, and in that instant of confusion, your message: I am trembling

It can't happen the same way on both sides without even touching us. We're connecting in the most genuine way two people can connect.

I want to suck your cock, I tell you, but I didn't say it's been the yummiest cum of my recent times.

When you tell me you need me to suck your cock and that you'll make me cum, I can't believe I'm getting hot again. I think about your cock, the thick vein of your cock inside my mouth, and a new wave of pleasure comes over me.

I regret it, but it's too late. Everything falls apart, but there's no reason to let this moment pass. Then listen well, son of a thousand whores, how long does it take you from the center to get to my house?

When I finished reading his enormous confession, I told him to give me 15 minutes to adjust my schedule and that in half an hour I'd be at his doorstep.