#53: The Big Yank

I thought I would write a classic TC lay report for this one: mixing a combination of storytelling with technical aspects which came to mind. This is the style I’ve aimed for in my memoir, which has now been through an editor and is awaiting my final review.

Enjoy.

*****

Wednesday came and work ticked by. 5:30pm, I looked around and most people had begun to leave. There was jack shit to do. Tonight was Daygame night and I needed to start racking up the sets so I could hit my target of 35 that week.

I’ll do six to eight tonight, I thought, and then I’ll easily be able to knock out the rest on the weekend.

These midweek sessions had an extra benefit in that I could warm myself up for a big weekend.

I got home and got changed immediately then brushed my teeth. I think you should aim for momentum in everything you do before taking your first step onto the street. Dossing around at home breaks your train of thought. Instead, you should move with direction and that determination to “just do the next thing” carries into your sets.

After taking the shortcut to the train station, riding the tube, and then emerging out into Covent Garden, I got started. Immediately I fell into a groove and did two approaches with two number closes. The first was undeniably flaky because she was in a rush, but as #52 reminded me: sometimes she’s just into you and a short set doesn’t matter. The second number was from a Swiss girl who said she had a boyfriend but her eyes told me she was very much attracted. Maybe she’ll come out, I don’t know.

As I walked down Oxford Street I began to think about my player goals. I had the standard goals such as “fuck 100 girls”, “have a threesome”, “fuck a model”, etc., but I also had another, slightly strange one: “fuck a girl who’s taller than me”. Now, I’m 6”8’, so I’m not putting much stock in that goal being achieved just due to the sheer scarcity of such girls, but it roughly translates to “fuck a really tall girl”.

Rose was just that girl.

She had just turned into the new Next on Oxford Street and had turned heads with her height. She had her long blonde hair pulled up in a tight ponytail and was wearing an all black outfit: leather jacket with little wooly frills, jeans, and heeled boots.

“Fuck it,” I said out loud, perhaps a little louder than I’d have expected myself to, and followed her in.

Rose was perusing the dresses with a glass of sparkling wine in hand when I approached her; it was the shop’s grand opening and they had been handing out drinks at the door. I’d ignored them and closed straight in on my target.

“Excuse me,” I said, getting her attention, “can I just say I love how tall you are.”

She was chubbier than I had hoped but still good. I rated her as a high six but it was a shame because if she lost just a little bit of weight she could easily be a seven, and even more if she really got her act together. I showed her picture to S (a wing of mine) and he rated her as an eight, so who really knows… But she couldn’t help but show her good genes: her soft pink lips, straight nose, and big eyes – with perfectly flicked eyelashes – all stood out.

“Thank you,” she replied, her eyes flickering in attraction, “I could say the same to you!”

“Thanks. So how tall are you then?” I asked her.

“Six foot three.”

“Blimey,” I replied, “and these heels?” I pointed down.

“Hmmm, three inches I think.”

I was slouching like an Alpha 10.0™ so when she stepped a little closer to me I had to look up a little. I’ll admit, I felt a little bit intimidated; it must be how girls feel when I approach them on the street.

I think height is the primary visual attraction factor for women. Remember it goes “tall” first in “tall, dark and handsome”. Like good looks, it’s instantly perceivable, and it lets you get away with worse Game than a short guy.

It might explain how Berba could get some lays. Funnily enough I ran into him in Seven Dials by Itsu while he was coaching two students. The first one hurled himself into set and the girl politely excused herself after thirty seconds. I caught all of that as I walked by and I gave the student a knowing smile. All of a sudden he stopped, and there was JB himself. I shook his hand and said hello. After another couple of seconds of looking into the void, I headed off.

Now back to me! I’ve always accepted that my height has contributed to my success. It’s a natural advantage but it also makes me see the opportunity for a greater challenge: how far up the female SMV ladder can I go?

“Hello,” another voice went off beside me. What the hell is that?

I turned my head and my gaze went in a right angle: first directly to my shoulder at the same height, and then downwards, where I noticed an older woman with greying hair trying to get my attention. She had a glass in each hand, one with the same sparkling white wine that Rose was drinking, and the other filled with orange juice.

“Can I offer you a drink?” she continued.

“Hmmm, sure.” I said, taking the orange juice (I had to keep sharp you see!).

She smiled and shuffled off to push more glasses into people’s hands, and we continued flirting. After a couple more minutes where I found out that Rose was Estonian, 20 years old, was a soul singer, and was studying music production, I went for the jugular:

“Listen, Rose, how about this: you do your shopping, and in an hour, let’s meet for a drink. Sound good?”

“Okay yes.” she was on-board straight away.

With the delayed i-date in my mind, I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate; I had scheming to do. I did a couple more sets then settled into Leon on Tottenham Court Road with a small Americano. Get this: the girl making the coffee was a trainee, and she didn’t tamp the coffee down into the portafilter! All thoughts of the SDDL left my mind and were replaced with rage.

Rose and I had planned to meet at Tottenham Court Road station at 8:30 and so I needed to decide on my venues, and my plan, quickly. First I’d take her to The Crown pub, because I love the irony, where I’d do mostly comfort with a little escalation over the first half pint. Over the second, I’d built towards the kiss. If she accepted that, then I’d bounce across the street to the London Cocktail Club, and I was fairly sure that if she made it that far the lay was in the bag.

Rose was about ten minutes late. I kissed her on each cheek and then led her down the street as I enjoyed her elegant walk. In each hand she held a shopping bag with shoes in.

“So do you prefer beer or wine?” I asked.

“Mmmm wine, but tonight I feel like beer.” The odds of the lay had just increased by a significant factor as she committed herself to mixing her drinks.

The first half pint went exactly as I’d planned, except that some people tried to cut in line at the bar and I firmly reminded the bartender that I was there first. With Rose I contained the physical escalation to incidental touches.

As I sat down with our second, I eyed up her handbag; it was between us.

“Let’s put this on the floor.”

“Hmmm, you shouldn’t put it on the floor.”

“Well let’s put it somewhere then.”

She ummed and ahhed a little more until I picked it up myself and placed it to my other side. We were sitting on a leather bench but there was no space next to her. She had no qualms after I moved it, which was an excellent piece of information: if I was persistent then she would comply.

Then I moved onto her rings.

“Let me see this.”

Again, she was reticent, but I knew I could take a calculated risk here. Firmly, I took her hand, and yanked it towards me. She gave up resisting and her hand fell into mine. It was a huge green light. It was telling me: try to brute force most compliance tests with conviction and persistence, and you’ll get compliance.

Soon I had my hand on the back of her neck, absentmindedly playing with her hair.

“I’m just really interested in your hair.” I said with a smirk.

“Oh sure.” She replied knowingly. I reached over and kissed her. She reciprocated with tongues. It was on like Donkey Kong.

When we finished our drinks I told her:

“Let’s go, we’re going to another place.”

“Another place?!”

I stood Rose up and let her grab her bags, before leading her across the street to the London Cocktail Club. Its tattoo parlour feel perfectly set the mood for a dirty Questions Game where I ended up spitting filth into her ear, and putting her hand on my dick.

“Can you feel that?” Her eyes swam.

With another round of drinks finished, we headed upstairs; time for the moment of truth. In all honesty, though, I was still a tincey bit nervous, so I softened the bounce to mine.

“Listen, we’re going to another place but it is near mine. Okay.”

As we waited for the Uber to arrive we made out and I groped her boobs.

“Outside?!” she squealed with pleasant indignation.

I looked down at my hand in shock and slapped it.

“Bad hand!” I said as I grinned. “It’s got a mind of its own,” I concluded with a smirk and a shrug.

The Uber was uneventful and the last drink lasted all of ten minutes. I’d noticed that as the night progressed she had been drinking faster and faster; maybe she was just steeling herself for the lay. Pretty soon it was time for the final bounce:

“Let’s go.”

“To where?”

“To mine.”

She said nothing. I just stood up.

“Come on.”

She gathered her things and walked the two minutes to mine. After a quick piss and no LMR, I was pounding away at her wet pussy. It turns out she was another dirty birdy and absolutely relished being slapped, spanked and spat on. I put my thumb in her mouth and she bit down really hard. Now I’m talking really hard; she bruised my little TC thumb! In retaliation I slapped her across the face. It was a real corker.

I took her hair band out and pulled her hair back as I fucked her. It came down to just above her arse.

Eventually I pulled out and came in her mouth. She drained all of the cum out my cock with her pink lips and swallowed. Rose looked up at me with her big eyes and an even bigger smile, just to prove she’d swallowed.

I leaned in:

“Say that you’re Tom’s little bitch.”

“I’m Tom’s… little… slut.”

I approved of her improvisation, sultry voice and dramatic pauses.

“And don’t you ever fucking forget it.” I replied. Her eyes pulsed as she committed the moment to memory.

In the post-sex interview I learned that she’d fucked eight guys previously (high for a 20 year old), that she knew from the moment I came to talk to her that we would have sex, and that she wanted to fuck from that moment.

I gave her the EFA and she giggled and agreed, which has put her on the path to being a regular, before fucking her again and then getting dressed. I’ve got a no sleepover policy for new girls at the moment unless I intend to get them attached to me (and me to them). And even then, I don’t want another pseudo-girlfriend either, so, for now, it’ll be incredibly rare for a new girl to sleep over. They need to know that we begin as a just sex setup. But that’s not to say it can’t develop into something else in the future. Rose is coming over on Sunday, and with her only being 20 years old, there’s a lot of potential here.

Yours unfaithfully,

Thomas Crown