You just want to be pretty, I understand that. I look at you now, on your knees before me, your head bobbing as you gently please me -- you look so happy. Sometimes I moan a little, and say "good girl," or "oh baby." Soft words. Cooing words. I can almost feel you smile around my cock.
You love my fingers in your hair. The way I make little curls, little bunches. You find the stroking motion soothing. The odd tug gets you excited. Your mouth sounds so wet, and feels so warm. Our eagerness for each other is manifested in these hot little sounds.
I look at you, your eyes closed as you find a rhythm for me. I lean back, knowing you will continue happily, until I coat the inside of your mouth, make you sticky.
You're wearing white stockings that have little bows at the top, I always remember your little gasp when your first saw them. "For you," I said, "Julie." This is the name you've chosen for our meetings. Along with the stockings you wear a skimpy white dress, it's too small for you, but that just makes it sexier.
I think of when I first called you sexy. You looked scared, like I was mocking you, but when you saw I meant it, you melted. All you ever wanted was to be soft. To be pretty. To be wanted, admired. Maybe sometimes you reflect on how wild this is, how far you've come. Maybe it takes you by surprise. Maybe you don't care. Right now you look so lost in the moment, so committed to being my good girl, that I think you could never look prettier.
I tell you this, your eyes open and you lean back. My cock popping slickly out of your mouth. You look at me, almost scared again. So I lean forward, caress your hair, stroke your chin. "Such a pretty girl."
