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Adela Part 1: Lust

After life throws a curve ball, an English boy starts his journey in the world of online dating

Paul was exhausted. Four years he’d battled pulling eighty-plus-hour weeks to try and turn around a client project that he’d volunteered to parachute in on after it had derailed off a cliff edge. What was worse was that despite everything, it had been a fantastic success. Yet he had let his guard down and had forgotten his golden rule, a rule he usually lived by; he’d become invested and gotten too involved. So when the client inevitably turned on him - as if often the case with consultants (especially when internal elements either needed someone to blame for their own failings, or wanted you to fall flat on your face so that they could feel better) – it had left him dumbstruck and ripped away from the familiarity of his battle-weary team at a time when they should have been celebrating.

“Four years… and what have I got to show for it?”.

The thought rattled around in his head, over and over again. His animosity was palpable. His social life had all but evaporated as a result and it had been five years since he’d made even any real effort at dating. He scoffed, realising that he was conflating dating into a 'positive'. The incessant games girls play, the lies that get strung up as you sit across the table in mutual awkwardness trying to be someone ‘datable’. Hiding from each other what you actually want. He couldn't face it.

He’d always played the chivalrous game, looking out at every opportunity for ‘the one’, for ‘Miss Right’. Yet there hadn’t been any time for socialising and none for dating… there certainly hadn’t been any opportunity for sex.

SEX. The merest thought of the word sent a pulsing, creeping shiver through him, causing a sudden rush of excitement and a sharp deep breath. As the weeks went by and his stress started to lift from his simmering work preoccupation, that word and its delectable little shiver preyed on his senses more and more. Sex. Sex. Sex!

The urge was suddenly overpowering, far stronger than it had been even in his teens, nor at any other point. His body, delayering the stress and resentful at having sacrificed years for nothing but grief suddenly craved the company women with such a torrent of force that it had caught him off guard. His libido had sprung fiendishly back into life and now even walking down the street quickly became an exercise in lascivious torture. Every shapely skirt, every finely sculpted leg, every breast crammed into a tightly fitting thin summer top. His eyes found it, tormenting him with every curve and slender hip dripping away from the most delicate of waist that he so badly wanted to envelop the owner softly, controllingly, firmly in his hands… and then just as sure as the sun in the sky, that sharp deep breath and flash of inner carnal lust would be there tormenting his mind.

Paul’s response was to try to defy it, use it to his advantage as a way to spur him into action. He decided to quit masturbation, which would have been admirable had he been able to remove his eyes, but without that possibility, he knew that it would exacerbate his torture. But he was counting on that. It would be a means to spur himself to get back out there - quickly.

“But where to go?” he mused.

His innate sense of chivalry and his upbringing meant he craved to fulfill an innate need for a psychological connection. Combined with a hearing impediment it meant that he hated clubs or bars filled with meandering drunken, shouting masses all screaming over each other. He actually wanted to talk to women, hoping at least that his mind was still his best asset and that a connection could lead to something further, something passionate.

David, his eternal ‘gay eight-ball’ (useful in his own right as an unbiased portal for gazing into the female mind) was, as ever, utterly unsympathetic towards the idea of having to listen to straight-guy angst, and, choosing to point score (as women do) merely remarked,

“I told you ten years ago to do online dating. It’s not a stigma anymore for straights like it used to be. It’s all anyone does nowadays”.

David was strong-armed into telling Paul a couple of bona fide dating sites that were ‘acceptable’ for straight people before he unceremoniously told Paul to get lost and get on Tinder.

Paul still loathed the idea. He always had, but right now it seemed positively glorious compared to wasting the summer sitting in coffee shops or having to join some desperate singles meetup organisation. Walking home he seized on the energy of the moment, bit the bullet and signed up with one (though not Tinder). As he continued to walk he immediately started filling in the profile, glancing up infrequently enough to bump into a few tutting passers-by. He was constantly having to correct himself or go back and re-answer now uneditable questions because his carnal lust had crept in and it was making him sound alarmingly like a 'player' in front of these faceless hordes of judgmental women.

He stopped dead. A coy wry smile hit his face as an idea crept into being. David had told him with much disdain to join a dating site and he knew that David - knowing him too well - didn’t actually expect him to do it.

The idea was formed.

“There’s more than one type of dating site!”

Anyone who has spent more than seven seconds on the seedier side of the Internet knew it. It would be the last thing that David would ever expect him to do. Hell, it was the last thing that Paul expected Paul to do.

He rushed home, fired up a VPN and began searching. His background in IT and stoic rationalism made him instantly suspicious. Yet it was an exciting buzz; these types of sites, littered with flagrant and badly concealed glamour shots and cropped porn were vastly different from the kosher dating sites. They all strove to appeal to the male psyche and he quickly realised that this fact wasn’t designed to actually deliver anything, merely to extract cash safe in the knowledge that their clientele wasn’t going to wind up complaining. By the evening, Paul had narrowed it down to two that he considered to be about the least worse, both of which he found on Google and, momentarily throwing caution to the wind, signed up fully with both.

Pages and pages of women, like a perverse shopping experience designed to defy the senses. Pretty faces mixed in with the sexually gratuitous and hedonistic. Gravity-defying breasts offering row after row of titillation. He felt like a Roman citizen who had just snuck into his first slave auction. Anything you could want or desire. The debaucherous, the carnal, every view of the flesh was ripe to be visually explored and if the money was right, was yours to woo. Each pretty face or voluptuous bosom came complete with explicit parameters over expectations and most importantly, unlike dating, they all wanted Sex!

“If only real-life dating were this direct,” he mused.

He savoured the new experience. Here, now he didn’t have to hide or shy away from his urges or desires. Paul could use his excitement to his advantage and being as frank and clear as he could, finished the profiles with ease and linguistic fervour – with which he hoped to attract girls with beauty of mind, as well as of delightfully exposed attributes in other areas…

He wasn’t going to attract anyone without a photo.

He’d managed to find a torso shot of him in a suit, that also happened to be from a professional photographer. He wasn’t prepared to cross the line on showing his face; to be recognised was a worry, to have his image and face used by scam dating sites a concern, but to be picked up through Google or Facebook facial recognition was a genuine terror.

He cursed his IT background and considered whether ignorance would have allowed him to do it…

“Probably,” he concluded glibly. “Ignorance is bliss”.

Paul knew he couldn’t leave it with just a torso shot. The delectable galleries of female enticement told him loudly and clearly enough that he had to reciprocate in kind. The girls wanted to see what they could be getting - just as much as he did.
Naturally body-shy and reserved - and having never done such a thing before - the three weeks with no self-inflicted sexual release surged forth his risk-taking courage, while his wild desires compelled him to throw caution to the wind and allowed him to act beyond his normal composure.

He knew he was bigger than most in length - as well as girth. He was always neatly groomed down there and certainly had nothing to be ashamed of down in the female-desires department. His tall wiry frame and fast metabolism had never afforded him to bulk up, but in the eye candy context he rationalised that as much as he ran against the stereotype and preferred smaller-breasted women, so too there should be sufficient women who weren’t all about guys spending four hours a day, every day down the gym.

One perverse side effect of his three weeks of self-inflicted torture was that getting hard wasn’t a problem.

The flash of a leg, flick of a skirt, a poorly timed movement or adjustment in the trouser department that led to even the slightest stimulation for his attention-deprived cock, would surely mean that his manhood would take every opportunity to make its presence felt.

Now was no exception.

Grabbing the phone, and needing no supporting stimulus, he ran to the mirror. He didn’t even need to grasp it in his hand, but he grabbed it anyway just to feel the pleasure of his painfully swollen member shuddering beneath his pressure.

His excitement at the idea of taking a naked selfie was sufficient to keep it hard and stripping off his clothes completely, it fell forward abruptly in front of him to a rigid stop, the head screaming to be free of its soft, moist prison.

He could have jacked up a car with it at that point.

Within seconds the head had fully ballooned out from beneath the foreskin entirely of its own accord. The pressure on the straining frenulum was intensely pleasurable and with each throbbing pulsation of the head, it tightened further. He didn’t dare touch it for fear of exploding all over the mirror, but gave his shaft a gentle rub of reassurance at the base as an indulgent reward.

“I hope that the girls appreciated the effort,” he said out loud and he started the show.

A few shots, from the top, side and a naughty one from underneath capturing the erection and his bullet-hard plums and he was soon standing gazing into the mirror, still bolt hard. He took a few intentionally blurry, headless, full body shots to complete the series and before he could change his mind, he ran back to the computer, pulled the images from the phone and sent them on their way.

His work was done, his sordid creations nothing more than ephemeral bait in this new sea of waiting conquests for his searing cock.

Anything else would have to wait, as the phone rang signalling he needed to be somewhere else. He smiled perversely; this meant his angry, unsatisfied cock would have to come too and no doubt would be ready to show him up. So loose clothing was hastily arranged. He proudly gave his now public photos a second glance and hastily he left, craving more.

Paul finally got back to it that evening around 7 pm. His mind (both of them) had been readily preoccupied with frequent thoughts about the photos, the fact that women could be looking at them as he had daydreamed away the day. Women secretly craving his manhood to be theirs to play for, play with and crave to have him satisfy their most intimate bodily pleasures.

The thoughts were intoxicating, the titillation at the possibilities and the naughtiness factor off the charts - especially for a buttoned-up English boy. He had been distracted by these thoughts all afternoon.

His apprehensions soon evaporated into a sense of victory. On returning home he found he had from one new message waiting the first site had and two from the second.

The messages were all from older women, which while he was flattered, left him a little disappointed as being a toy boy did not feature in his plans. Their messages were also completely generic, with no real effort and without that elusive and hard to describe ‘connection’ or intrigue jumping out of the page. He dismissed them immediately. After all, it had only been an afternoon and he hadn’t looked around either of the sites yet.

Exploring was the mark of the next couple of nights. Going through them was a hedonistic and above all eye-opening experience.
Any last vestiges he had of the noble Christian worldview of women being without lust or desire quickly evaporated in the sea of erotic fantasies, lustful inquisitions and a wide range of expressions of cravings that you might never even think could cross the mind of the fairer sex. They were all on display for the inquisitive eye to see, all very much elaborated in ways to appeal to the male sexual engine and keep it going as an incentive for attracting the ‘right sort’ of attention.

None of this was remotely helping with Paul’s over-stimulated libido. Every inch of his masculinity ached, yearning for that inevitable release in finding his prize and its soft, satisfying and all-consuming embrace.

He went through each site, sorting firstly (as best the site would allow) based upon distance, then age and then appearance. He felt a significant pang of guilt about the latter, with it somehow seeming crass. Yet without even needing to think about it, he knew his sexual prototype; he always had: slim or athletic, five-foot-four or ideally taller to compliment his height at over six-foot-two, smaller-breasted for proportion as accentuation of curves, long well-kept hair and most importantly, brunette (with added attention for having deep, rich hazel eyes to match).

Blondes would always have to fight if they wanted to catch his eye. It had always been like that. One of the profiles, that of a stunningly pretty student from Cardiff, shot in seductively appealing girly pink lingerie and in a titillating full-profile shot caught his eye, her long flowing hair being used to hide most of her face. She was too much to pass on looking at. She was of course far too far away, but “it would be rude not to look” he jibed to himself.

Her profile didn’t help matters and were it not for the five-hour drive he would have contacted her on the spot. He wanted more than having to undertake ten hours of driving just for a one-off encounter. He wanted something regular. He favourited her, to keep her in mind, but didn’t message her.

The girl did offer one other gift. She had a link in her profile to another website, straight into her mirror profile, and taking it as a recommendation he signed up with this new site too, adding her as a favourite there for the second time.

He quickly grew frustrated with one of the three sites. It was creating an unbelievable number of messages, all of which were completely generic. All asking nothing but saying exactly what a sexually frustrated guy wanted to hear.

The messages were all supposedly from other members in the UK but were coming in at very odd times of day and night. There was obviously nothing real about them or the site; it was a scam.

For “entertainment purposes only” it said buried in their terms. “You agree to receive messages designed to enhance your enjoyment that may be automated in nature or from accounts created solely for enjoyment purposes.” Outright fraud. His bubble burst and it raised his cynicism level. The other two sites also cleverly wove similar terms into their small print. “They’re just trying to manipulate money out of people,” he chided himself for falling into such an obvious trap.

A couple of days passed as he mulled it all over, his tempered desires finally piquing above his cynicism once more and overruling his frustration until he found himself back at the keyboard.

He hadn’t given much attention to the third site, and on looking around it, the site proved to be by far the least interesting to him: lacking features, visibly offering the smallest number of women and having a poor search that was mainly comprised of attractive - but out of arms' reach - women from the Continent or further afield.

It was also unappealing as you had to pay an agonising £2.50 a message and could only write 300 characters. It felt manipulative and he felt it unlikely to be able to develop any sort of rapport, let alone a connection with anyone under these terms. It also dawned on him that his accountant was going to have full view of all these transactions, something only adding to his angst and save for what happened next nearly ended the experiment. But he had message credit and couldn’t refund it, so he may as well use what was left now and pin all his hopes on the one remaining site.

Paul clicked about the search results. There were a couple of cute girls who were reasonably local, and a few last-ditch introduction messages later he was nearly out of credit so slipped off to bed unexpectantly.

The morning came and he checked each of the sites. The scam one had several ‘new’ messages, which he ignored. The other two had no new messages overnight – disappointing him of course, but appropriate given it was a ‘school night.’

He was about to log off and go to work when in the random-matches results on the third site, a username advertised as being in his own town caught his eye. The profile had no photo and was curiously named “FinallyFree”. He hadn’t been looking at all at the droves of photo-lacking profiles, does anyone? But for some reason, he decided to click in.

Like with most profiles on the third site, there was little profile data. The bio consisted of a simply stated: “Finally free of a bad long-relationship and want to have loads of sex”. Her sexual interests list was modest, normal, leaning slightly on the adventurous and experimental side, including a desire to explore different penetrative positions, but showing nothing that Paul wasn’t willing to try himself, and he chose to read a subtle hint of submissive undertones on her part. Yet, despite not having a profile photo, “FinallyFree” had included some photos that weren’t registering on the site's search.

“A bonus for me,” Paul thought, “she’ll not be attracting much attention.”

Her photos were gorgeous, cropped at the top of her long, elegant neck to intentionally hide her face from public gaze. She had posted two visible photos and two more though heavily blurred out.

The first showed her full body and teased at the luscious sculpted figures of her long, velvety legs which swooped tantalisingly down out of shot to the depths of an imaginary floor. She was sitting, slightly at a side angle on the edge of a neatly made green bed, her slight frame making a minimal dent in the green, lightly textured bedspread laid out in a French regal pattern. Her legs were nearly at right angles, her left leg daintily positioned downwards to form a shapely ‘v’, masking view of her crotch, but that teased towards what lay hidden between.

She wore nothing, top or bottom, though he imagined a cheeky, yet bashful smile worn across her missing face as she pondered the same excited emotions that Paul himself had felt, taking erotic pictures to be let loose on the world for the first time. A long, white feather boa crisscrossed the shot from her petite left hand, tickling as it vanished behind her waist out of shot to emerge back out beneath her, draped seductively by her right thigh.

Her left wrist bore a delicate string of small white pearls, slumped under their own weight into a gentle bow, caressing languidly over her wrist. Her arms were smooth and unblemished save for a vibrant pattern of barely visible freckles dusted over her pale, but slightly sun-kissed white skin. The multiple tones made the pearls pop on her wrist and Paul imagined how good she’d feel if he unclipped them and slowly crawled the line of glistening orbs gently, teasingly up her freckled skin, to pop them in succession one… two… three… four… over her exposed, erect nipple.

Her exposed natural breasts glistened in the low bedroom light with the same lightly sun-kissed hue as the rest of her body. No evidence of tan lines or clothing marks punctured the freckle-free texture of her plump, round bosom.

“B or C cup," he reckoned with himself, “probably a C,” he decided.

They hung gracefully, their smooth curves drawing from her breastbone, starting at a shallow angle and quickly rising, steeper and steeper out to the crest of her swollen areolas. Her breasts accented her chest in perfect proportion to her figure and frame, plump and perfectly round at the base as the breast plunged back beneath her prominent forward-pointing nipples to rejoin her chest. Satisfyingly natural, soft and squeezable, they were like radiant smiles with proud, puffy button noses standing at dead attention in their centre.

They were natural, and a perfect size. Paul imagined the feeling of rolling her swollen nipple between his cold thumb and forefinger, teasing the tip of the teat gently in a circular, undercut motion with his nail as his thumb grazed around her majestic, deep brown areola of a colour that matched her hair.

Her tummy was immaculately trim, falling straight - but not toned - down towards her crossing legs, its line only disturbed by the dark swirling vortex of her navel, an innie, presented very lickably on the descent to Venus.

Her hair - brown, rich, straightened to shoulder length, bobbing gracefully with volume - sat tickling, tantalisingly close at her breast. The effort put into her hair was apparent to see, with a rich palette of hues from highlights evident in its flowing sheen. Though straightened, her hair fell in some apparent disarray, boisterous and wild. He imagined her having fun taking the photos.

She would have started out reserved and shy, slowly stripping off for the camera as she gained more confidence in her beauty and presence, before finding the boa and giving in to her wild sexuality, presenting her body ever more erotically before the lens of her camera. The wilder she got, the bolder she became and the more thrill she felt at putting herself on display. Her exposed body coaxed her to go further as she stroked, fondled and caressed herself into a sexual stupor. She was a woman and she craved to be seen, to have male eyes exploring, judging, desiring her. With each thrust, wild twist and raunchy jerk displacing her perfect hair in every direction, her hand ran through it, each tug adding to the excitement before she found herself tearing at it ravenously in her passion. Throwing it and the boa left and right in pose after delectable pose before exhaustion set in, she collapsed naked to her bed and masturbated out the last of her energy into a perfect self-absorbed orgasm, the camera still capturing each thrust of her writhing, twitching body.

He smiled, thinking how naughty and how brave she had been in this imaginary backstory, before clicking to the next image.

The second of the two visible pictures further added to his intrigue. Re-adjusted on the bed, boa strewn out in front of her, she knelt suggestively on all fours, thrusting her sexual majesty provocatively upwards towards the camera, ready to be mounted like a canine bitch teasing at a dog by trying to crawl away each time he approaches.

The stance was a clear and uncompromising statement of her intent, sexual as well as teasing as she crawled away from the camera. Her face was well and intentionally hidden from view, but her breasts teased their presence, suspended buoyantly in the gloomy light forming a soft silhouette between her mischievously parted legs. Her legs, long and straight, poured off her curvaceous hips, cascaded down to her feet, soles visible at the front of the shot and suspended playfully in front of the camera as her little curling toes stretched calling for attention off the end of the bed. Central to the frame, her straight shapely thighs drew their start from an obvious thigh gap, more than enough for a man’s firm, strong hand to find her, to tame her without obstruction. All of this was framed beneath the source of her obvious and provoking eroticism.

Front and centre was the subtle warm glow of her pussy, teasing, yet somehow in itself, shy.

Probably not used to being the centre of attention, her tiny, almost hidden morsel betrayed its camouflage by virtue of its aroused complexion. She was… perfect. She could have made a porn star blush in envy. Button tight, her outer labia seemed to be zipped closed with a delicate seam, her outer lips as pure and white as the rest of her skin, slightly redder for her sexual excitement. It was split in perfect symmetry by the darker, almost tanned line of her slit, enticingly coloured the same as her areolas. Its definition almost made it seem as though it were drawn on, like it were drawn with a makeup pencil – made perfect for celluloid and demanding its moment on screen.

The package was so tightly buttoned, that not the merest hint of her inner lips, clitoris or entrance could be seen. Two fingers – maybe more - could have forced her apart to reveal her flower, and such a feat would be a worthy effort, but the only possible approach any man could muster would be to succumb and kiss her on her puffy pink lips and to explore the lines of her seam in every direction and in greedy, selfish detail. Her pose demanded nothing less.

Her velvet slit led up uninterrupted into the shadowed sculpture of her butt. Though her pussy could not hide, her tiny hole disappeared into the subtle shadow cast between her firm, lean cheeks, with not a blemish to define either way what lay beyond. The shape of the shadow reminded him of Saturn with its rings, or the swirling image of the galaxy heaped over on its side, swirling rings of shadow, without definition, hiding the small detail of her erogenous unmentionable at its heart.

Paul was hard. His lust holding him captive. The torture of the other two photos hinted at more as she secretly played with the boa beneath her veil of blurred privacy.

She was a stunning example of womanhood, and local. He yearned to see her face, to complete the picture of adding every dimension to his growing fancy. He closed his eyes and imagined the thrill of kissing her, sampling her, ravishing her while she selfishly wrapped every orifice her tight body had to offer around his throbbing cock for her self-centred delight as he tamed her lustful yearning, subduing her sexual demon beneath his masculine power.

“I wonder if she thinks she has a sexual demon?” he mused to himself. “I’ll have to ask.”

Within a few moments, at twenty to midnight, he’d messaged her: “Hi, nice to meet you"

And as the clock hand swung towards its zenith, as he gazed at the screen in a dream, to his delight, she timidly unveiled her presence.

“Nice to meet you too, what is your name? Will you add some photos?”

As he considered what to say next, his rational mind took back control and Paul yearned to discover if her mind and spirit were as resplendent as her naked presence. He took a moment to compose himself.

The chase was on...

 

Authors note: This story was written for someone for whom it will bring a knowing smile

 

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than Lushstories.com with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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