I am a phylogynist, a fan of women. I believe every cleaning lady is alone, I have nibbled, grazed, yes, even gorged myself on several of those I 've met. But all of that is but a dim memory since she came into my life. Yet I remain, a connoisseur of the intimate acts a man and woman can do to pleasure each other. I just want to do them all with her and no one else.

I was never a man looking for a 10, or 9, or even a 5, I wo n't grade adult female on looks alone. I was only ever interested in fair sex, who had n't explored every facial expression of her own being, including sexual, and wants a partner committed to mutual geographic expedition. She only has to be intelligent, searching for the finer things, healthy, exacting, enticing, seductive, amorous, sensually passionate and understanding. Certainly not too lots to ask ?. My devotee is the response to all that and more. She is the physical object of all my fancy.


For me a `` date"with the womanhood I love involves an eventide out…. food for thought, music, theater, dancing, a night in and breakfast in the morning…. I know my way around the kitchen. As the evening out is indeed a preliminary to the night in, the temptation begins there. She is fastidious about herself, hygiene, hair, war paint, wearing apparel. It helps my ego to feel that her appearance says to the total world… at to the lowest degree the men. `` I 've got IT, but only he can have IT."Most women can sense like a 10, if they care seriously about themselves. My love is definitely my 10.

I think a woman out for the eventide should dress like a cleaning woman, mire are out. Sensuous lingerie is a definite must ; a lacy bra, supporter belt and stockings can be a big turn-on. This particular night, she wore a feminine courting in a vividness most becoming to her. Under the jacket crown she was as daring as she felt comfy, wearing a thin, webbed under-wired bra that enhanced her decolletage. The key to all of this is do n't show too very much to the men about you but drop the temptation constantly at the man by your side. The nice thing about garter whang and stockings, she need wear aught else underneath, welcoming the stolen caress of her intimate second joint or eminent if the moment presents itself. Only she and I will know. She knows all these tricks and more.

If dress lights the flame of seduction, then personality, attitude and responsiveness fuel the fire. My love returns my aid, clues me to her particular wants, desires, pauperization. I want her to be affectionate in public but not too gushing or gushing and she is. I like her subtle touch, a brief but lingering caress, that little hug to set off my hormone. We like to allude dance, there is no more sensual act a man and woman can do short-change of the connubial bed… at least in refined fellowship. There you are ; sliding against the physical structure you hanker to pleasure, swaying to the rhythm of the music not unlike the rhythmical, surging impulse of lovemaking. Remember at those high school dances…. the band played a deadening dance…. that hunk whose pant you would have died to get into and he in yours asked you to dance…. the two of you melted all over one another…. parting slowly after the medicine ended oblivious to the detail of your breast or the bulge in his crotch. Those feelings of vestal sexual desire are some of the good memories of my liveliness. Why not retake them once-in-a-while.

So now, we have wined and dined, listened to the actor's line of the beloved bard or his erstwhile ape or basked in the dessert or cacophonous tones of musician, even danced a while close together. Thus ends the evening out then begins the night in. The ride place is filled with the electrical energy of our sexual stress, the nervous gag, the quickened breath, the pounding in our chests, the alteration between both our legs. The key in the room access, it opens then closes sealing out the gaze of others. I pause, teetering on the verge. The brute in me wants to occupy her right there in the hall `` she 'll think I do n't respect her"and she pauses too. Her impetus is to labour her tongue deep into my backtalk `` he 'll conceive I 'm a strumpet ''. So we move tentatively, cautiously to the sofa, and eventually everything happens. But we maintain the decorum for just a lilliputian longer.


I love to snog and so does she ; we literally take each former's breath away. The candy kiss and cuddling give way to the slow and deliberate caress and fondling of two shrewd lovers. Her flesh is discretely exposed. Her peel glows, goofball jut appear, her knocker tighten, both nipple harden outward pulling the peel at its foundation into wrinkles. My lips and tongue strike southward down her neck in search of the milky gallant and pink buttons no eye could miss, paying homage to her along the way. I circle the heaving mounds with my tongue and lips, drawing down my bead on the dingy pink substance. I suckle softly, baby-like, increasing my sucking and force until I am a famished man, devouring this source of sustenance. Got milk ? This ravenous man now seeks out former delectables. Now the really reason for garter belts and stockings come to light. With little effort, I can now lay open the altar to Aphrodite and prepare its forfeiture to the Satyr.

Then comes the quandary, or several of them. Am I fresh enough for what comes future ? Do I need to go before ? Is n't the cast too uncomfortable ? Maybe she does n't give in to it right away and my zipper slides down and her deal removes the swollen implement. She looks at it thinking, `` It 's prominent tonight for some reason."But it 's really no vainglorious, just big… chummy and long. Some of her fingers encircle its more than 5 inches in circumference. She strokes downward, gliding the last oddment of the uncut foreskin from the bellying head. It looks like one of those new Army helmets, glistening with slippery fluid. As she nears the end of its 8-inch length, the unfold skin pulls the school principal flatter, a red bumbershoot mottled with purple. She pushes down and coerce, the urge of release rears momentarily in my hammock and then subsides. Will she ? I ask without muttering a Word, as she slides to her knees.

The reply is spry. My waistline unbuttoned, she pulls my trousers, then black cotton fiber brief to my knees. The relief eventually becomes a fuzz as I watch that USA helmet swallowed again and again, devoured with such relish by those paint lips. Despite the attack the shaft grows to a greater extent rigidly erect and the itch of release is punishing to dismiss. I wonder did the Satyr pray to Jupiter to see it melt one more time ? There is no time to enquire, as with a gasp I erupt in approach idocrase style. There is now a denouement, the dilemmas return, and this fourth dimension to be answered in fully. A respite declared, reconvene in bed ASAP.

The beast urge at the front threshold returns, this prison term without the former encumbrances. She again lies on the altar to Cytherea, this fourth dimension defenseless and suppliant. I begin again in earnest, the buss, the lascivious use of hands… not a football penalization here, the suckling and tonguing driving ever southward in search of the opening through which all of human race has passed. There is an air of sweet, heady perfume as the portal site of man feast give before me and I commence to consume its folds. The rate of thing has quickened, a pant then a prospicient moan and her clamping thighs bury me in the pulsing fold.


I lose track of time. Has my visit here been only a few instant or stretched into hours or mean solar day ? Did I dream this dreamlike Ecstasy…. her thighs burying my face into her again and again ? I gasp for air as she pulls me ever northward away from the portal. As I drag across the sheets, my God, is my peter steel ? I look in her font and her back talk mouth a rummy word that begins with `` F. '' I do not hear her but the words stop as I watch the Army helmet disappears. Now the rhythm of the dance overtakes me and the regular army helmet appears and vanishes at the portal of human race. That soldier is fighting a fierce struggle. To the master belongs the spoilage and the crush happily receives my cum. Battle won, the combatants crawl into each other 's weaponry as log Z's enfolds us.

With a click, MORNING edition on NPR fills the room with the sounds of reality. We cuddle together, wondering if the fantasy was real, afraid to break the spell if we ask. My stiff shaft and the slick coating of her folds convinced us it was and might be again. Immediately she is mounted to that undertaking. Such urgency on a still sleepy-eyed daybreak, steel get together gentle bod then a gushing deposit warms her inside. Sated, I switch off the news and rise to shower down and begin the finale, breakfast. She eats but a short, grapefruit, tea, a morsel of omelet and one from a fresh baked gyre. oeuvre beckons me ; there is never enough prison term. We leave each other at the most inopportune metre. Her candy kiss at the door makes me think in fantasy again. The portal site Of Mankind remain my Arc de Triumphe .