Nymph

Also available in German
Nymphe

It seems she’s already done it everywhere and with everyone. Her words carry a certain indifference, as if she would easily lie down with her legs wide open in front of me. “I don’t mind,” she says, “sex is overrated. In the end, it’s nothing more than two genitals merging and, at best, exchanging bodily fluids. I might as well spit in your mouth.” Interesting thought; I’ll write it down. I want to be as precise as possible in my dissertation and have searched the net for suitable candidates. Nina already had a significant profile on various platforms like OnlyFans and Pornoroulette, so I became curious.

I pay for our meetings and her anonymous reports; in return, she gives me insights into her private life. I sit on her couch in the spacious loft apartment while she eagerly walks to the kitchen counter. It all seems slightly chaotic yet strangely tidy as if she had developed a concept to distract from her extravagant lifestyle. I adjust my glasses and tug my skirt above my knees to hide my exposed thighs. “So you said you see some men several times a week?” I call after her. Since I’ve been here, she’s showered, washed her hair, constantly fiddled with her cell phone, and digging for some clothes. Clad in a towel around her head and a rather tight kimono, she stretches toward the top shelf. Her legs are slender and toned. I recognize the shades of her round bum; if I leaned forward, I could see even more. “Yes, but not just men,” she interrupts my thoughts. “Ah, there it is. I haven’t had cognac in ages, but today is a good day, don’t you think?” “Not for me, please; let’s stay on topic,” I clear my throat and turn my attention back to the notes. “Oh, come on, don’t be so stiff. You need to loosen up a bit.” even though I had said no, she was already spreading the cognac into two swivels. She has taste; I’ll give her that.

With the glasses in her hand, she prances toward me and drops on the couch beside me. “Here’s to our fruitful collaboration. Cheers!” I toast with her before smelling the drink and taking a timid sip. It tastes less intense than I thought it would, full-bodied and floral, oddly good. “This is a Rémy Martin. Got it as a gift from a date,” Nina says with a sly smile. I smile back and take another sip as she pulls the towel off her head. Her hair is long, somehow blonder than in the pictures from her website. I like the way she runs her fingers through each strand, trying to separate the tangles. It’s the first time she’s not looking at her phone or frantically walking around the apartment. At that moment, I recognized her flawless beauty, purity, you could almost say, however inappropriate that may sound; she is a professional, after all. During our chat, before we even met, she told me that she orgasms at least twice daily, whether alone with different people or one person doesn’t matter. I found this amazing, considering my dissertation on nymphomaniac behavior, as there was something almost dull about it, something that again held that indifference, like a cold handshake exchanged once or twice during the day.

“Tell me about the people you see more often. Why do you think they want to meet you again, and why do you put up with it?” I ask, leaning further away from her to get a better look. She sips her cognac and lights a cigarette. “Mostly because they have a certain fetish that their partners can’t fulfill or because they just miss me so much,” she laughs, winking at me, inhaling a deep drag of her cigarette and blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. “No, seriously, many form an emotional bond; even if it’s a transaction, somehow, you get closer and get to know each other over time, just like a relationship, but with guaranteed sex. You perform a huge task, you know? It’s an intense psychological responsibility that goes beyond the physical. Sometimes, I feel drained after those dates.” That, in turn, explains her indifference. “I’d like to know more about the fetish stories. Can you go into a specific example?” I bend forward, drink more of that delicious cognac and feel the heat rising. Over my glasses, which have already slipped to the tip of my nose, I look into Nina’s eyes, trying to match the words with her actions. She stubs out the half-smoked cigarette in the crystal ashtray, abruptly grabs her drink from the table, and leans back as if telling me her life story. Casually, she scratches the inside of her thigh before placing her hand on her lap and supporting her head with the other. Her kimono shows more than it should: subtle sensuality. It’s not lost on me.

“There’s a composer who regularly invites me to his house. We’ve known each other for several years. At first, I thought, ok, I’ll call that original because his request was anything but ordinary, but as I’m sure you can guess, I’m a sucker for creative ideas. So whenever I come to his house, he asks me to undress and sit on the corner of his dining table. Completely naked, I sit in front of him while he paces back and forth, looking at my body like a masterpiece, getting these little twitches in his fingers. Usually, we listen to his music, the compositions from the great opera house, as he puts it. We don’t talk much, anyway. It’s the same story. I come, undress, and sit down on his exclusive minotti. Next to it are five different nail polish colors to choose from, with which I paint each finger differently. He only cares about the right hand; the other remains unpainted. While the colors dry, he gets his piano stool, which he positions neatly in front of me, to prepare with various music sheets and a pencil for the upcoming. He wears glasses like you and always peers over the frame. I rarely see him laugh; he seems rushed, like someone who barely sleeps at night and tries to put together the remnants of his dreams during the day. Work is the only thing that makes him happy, he said. Without his compositions, he wouldn’t know what to do in this world. That’s why I take my visits seriously because I know they help him arrange new pieces. So I sit naked on the corner of his table and wait for his instructions. These instructions refer to the color of my nails. For example, if he says green, I should insert my ring finger deep into my pussy; if he asks for blue, it is my middle finger, etc. My legs are bent and wide open so he gets the best possible view. Red is my thumb, massaging my clit to the beat of the accompanying music. I think of my pussy as a music instrument; that’s exactly how it feels. It turns me on incredibly when I see him scribbling on his sheets with a highly concentrated expression, making his fingers dance in the air and calling out the colors I should insert. I get wet as he directs my pussy, driving me to the most glorious orgasm ever.

During the last meeting, I wanted to do something different. I tried to bring him to orgasm, too. He should just let go, all the pent-up energy reserved solely for his musical pieces. All those tireless thoughts would maybe come to rest at least for one night. So, I sit on his minotti as usual, only now, I don’t listen to his instructions anymore; instead, I insert green and blue together into my pussy. I noticed that these fingers triggered something in him. With my legs spread wide, I slowly slide both fingers in, very deep, matching the music surrounding us. It’s wet, the juice encloses me in welcome warmth, and I notice how his forehead begins to sweat. He removes his glasses, puts the music sheets on the floor with shaky hands, and opens his fly. For the first time, I get to see his cock. I already thought it was rather slender but of an aesthetic shape. His glans glisten, with brisk movements, he begins to jerk off while his gaze remains fixed on my receptive core. I do not stop thrusting into me and concentrate on the immediate sounds, perhaps a piece he composed through me. This thought intoxicates me completely, so I force both fingers deep and violently inside me while I massage my clit with red. I push my bare bum over the edge of the table, spreading my legs in the air, guiding myself and him. However, the most pleasure I get from his satisfaction. I watch his face become gentle; it almost takes on something friendly, something I’ve never seen before. His eyes stare at my pussy as if in hypnosis, and the fingers I’m now inserting in faster movements get wetter with each thrust. He doesn’t blink, sweat pearls down his cheeks, and I know he’s about to climax. His whole posture stiffens as the piano chair scratches across the parquet floor, and hot cum flows from his glans.

When I think about it, it’s those moments that fulfill me the most. Not the sex, the recurring in and out play, but watching, the slow blossoming of desires. I could take off my kimono, spread my legs, touch me, and see what it does to you. But only for an extra charge, of course,” she says with a wide grin on her flawless face while desire has already blossomed between my thighs.