He surprised me at our meet-up spot, and we spent some time walking around Times Square and taking the subway to different stores to find me my first stuffie (which he was generous enough to get for me). And while at first, he only held my hand, and guided me with a hand on the small of my back through the crowds, as the night went on, his hands wandered more, and his words became filthier in my ear: almost always teasing me about how needy I was becoming. And that teasing never failed to make me even wetter. Then he began “helping” me up the stairs, escalators, and up from seats: his hands always slipping just underneath my skirt, but never touching me where I wanted. That is, until we went to a park late at night. People were everywhere and he was keeping me on edge with just his words. Then he sat me down on a bench, and we gave everyone a covert show as he finally gave into my begging and touched me. He later told me that I had a look of “pure bliss” on my face as he did.
But none of that compared to what happened once we got to his car: I pleasured myself to his words as he drove, searching for a secluded spot to pull over, I begged for my first-ever kiss, and he finally gave me the finger-fucking he’d been teasing me with all night. And he taught me how to pleasure a man with both my hand and mouth. He complimented me on having “the best mouth he’s ever felt.”
Even days later, I still get wet at the memory and have been using it as primo spank bank fodder.