Stella 1-844-332-2639 ext 322
They call me many things. “That Stella,” they’ll say, “she’s…French.” As if that one word explains it all. They see the confident stride, the red lipstick, the way my eyes meet theirs without apology. They see a woman comfortable in her skin, undeniably so, and they fill in the blanks with their own assumptions. A certain kind of woman, they think…A slut…A whore.
It’s true, I don’t shy away from desire. And yes, a man who knows how to truly hold a woman, how to make her pulse quicken, is a rare and beautiful thing. But for all the gossip, for all the whispered judgments, they miss the crucial detail: I am impossibly, ruthlessly, agonizingly selective. Most men? They don’t even get a second glance.
“she’s…French.”
Then Charlie walked into my world, or rather, I walked into his. It was at that little jazz club on Crescent Street. He was at the bar, nursing a drink, his gaze drifting over the room until it snagged mine. I found myself drifting closer, ordering a glass of rosé. “Anything specific you’re looking for tonight?” I murmured, my voice a silken invitation. “Just a good story, maybe. And a decent drink.” His eyes, the color of warm honey, held mine. He wasn’t trying too hard, wasn’t trying to impress.
We talked for hours. About art, about travel, about the absurdity of social expectations. He listened, truly listened, the kind of listening that made me feel seen, not just observed. His hand brushed mine once, as he gestured, and a jolt went through me, electric and unexpected. The club emptied, but we stayed. He leaned closer, his scent, a mix of something woodsy and addictive. “You’re not like what I expected,” he said.
“Whores can be particular too, you know…” I replied, smiling.
Stella 1-844-332-2639 ext 322
https://phonesexcandy.com/stella/