I am a phylogynist, a lover of women. I believe every woman is singular, 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 confidant acts a man and fair sex 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 score women on looks alone. I was only ever concern in adult female, who had n't explored every aspect of her own being, including sexual, and wants a partner committed to mutual exploration. She only has to be intelligent, searching for the finer affair, sizeable, fastidious, enticing, seductive, amorous, sensually passionate and understanding. Certainly not too much to ask ?. My lover is the result to all that and more. She is the object of all my phantasy.


For me a `` date"with the fair sex I love involves an evening out…. intellectual nourishment, medicine, theater, dancing, a nighttime in and breakfast in the morning…. I know my way around the kitchen. As the evening out is indeed a prelude to the night in, the temptation begins there. She is exacting about herself, hygiene, pilus, makeup, apparel. It helps my ego to feel that her appearance says to the entire world… at least the men. `` I 've got IT, but only he can have IT."nigh womanhood can feel like a 10, if they care seriously about themselves. My lovemaking is definitely my 10.

I think a adult female out for the evening should do like a woman, slacks are verboten. Sensuous lingerie is a definite must ; a lacy bra, garter belt and stockings can be a big turn-on. This particular dark, she wore a feminine suit in a coloring most becoming to her. Under the jacket crown she was as daring as she felt comfortable, wearing a slender, lacy under-wired bra that enhanced her decolletage. The key to all of this is do n't show too a lot to the men about you but drop the temptation constantly at the man by your incline. The nice thing about garter whack and stockings, she need wearing nada else underneath, welcoming the stolen caress of her privileged second joint or higher if the moment presents itself. Only she and I will know. She knows all these magic trick and Sir Thomas More.

If dress lights the flame of seduction, then personality, attitude and reactivity fuel the fire. My love returns my attention, clues me to her especial wants, desires, needs. I want her to be lovesome in public but not too burbly or gushing and she is. I like her subtle feeling, a legal brief but lingering caress, that short hug to set off my internal secretion. We like to touch dancing, there is no more sensual act a man and cleaning woman can do short-circuit of the conjugal bed… at least in tasteful company. There you are ; sliding against the body you long to pleasure, swaying to the speech rhythm of the euphony not unlike the rhythmical, surging pulse of lovemaking. Remember at those high school dances…. the band played a irksome dance…. that hunk whose pants you would receive 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 music ended oblivious to the stop of your breasts or the bulge in his crotch. Those feelings of saturated sexual desire are some of the best memories of my life. Why not recapture them once-in-a-while.

So now, we have wined and dined, listened to the Bible of the beloved bard or his erstwhile imitators or basked in the sweet or cacophonic feeling of musician, even danced a while close together. Thus ends the evening out then begins the night in. The ride plate is filled with the electricity of our intimate latent hostility, the nervous laugh, the speed up breath, the pounding in our chests, the modification between both our ramification. The key in the door, it opens then closes sealing out the regard of others. I pause, teetering on the brink. The animate being in me wants to take her right there in the anteroom `` she 'll think I do n't respect her"and she pauses too. Her impulse is to drive her clapper trench into my mouth `` he 'll think I 'm a trollop ''. So we move tentatively, cautiously to the couch, and eventually everything happens. But we maintain the decorum for just a little longer.


I love to osculate and so does she ; we literally take each early's breath away. The buss and cuddling sacrifice way to the decelerate and deliberate caress and cuddling of two astute lovers. Her soma is discretely give away. Her pelt glows, goose excrescence appear, her breasts tighten, both nipple harden outward pulling the pelt at its stem into wrinkles. My lips and tongue ten-strike southward down her neck in search of the milky fop and pink buttons no eye could miss, paying homage to her along the way. I circle the heaving mounds with my clapper and lips, drawing down my bead on the dark garden pink nubs. I suckle softly, baby-like, increasing my suction and force until I am a esurient man, devouring this root of sustenance. Got milk ? This ravenous man now seeks out early delectables. Now the real number reason for garter smash and stockings come to twinkle. With little effort, I can now lay open the altar to Aphrodite and devise its ritual killing to the Satyr.

Then comes the dilemma, or respective of them. Am I impudent enough for what comes next ? Do I need to go before ? Is n't the couch too uncomfortable ? Maybe she does n't pay in to it right away and my zipper slides down and her hand removes the swollen-headed implement. She looks at it thinking, `` It 's bigger tonight for some reason."But it 's really no crowing, just big… midst and long. Some of her fingers encircle its Sir Thomas More than 5 inches in perimeter. She strokes downward, gliding the live on remainder of the uncut foreskin from the bulbous head. It looks like one of those new U. S. Army helmets, glistening with slippery fluid. As she nears the end of its 8-inch duration, the stretched skin pulls the question flatter, a red bumbershoot mottled with purple. She pushes down and twinge, the urge of acquittance rears momentarily in my sack and then subsides. Will she ? I ask without muttering a Word, as she slides to her articulatio genus.

The answer is spry. My waist unbuttoned, she pulls my trousers, then black cotton briefs to my human knee. The rest eventually becomes a blur as I watch that Army helmet swallowed again and again, devoured with such relish by those rouge lips. Despite the onslaught the shaft grows more bang erect and the impulse of release is harder to ignore. I wonder did the Satyr pray to Jove to see it disappear one more than time ? There is no time to marvel, as with a gasp I erupt in come on vesuvian trend. There is now a denouement, the dilemma return, and this meter to be answered in wide-cut. A recess declared, reconvene in bed ASAP.

The fauna urge at the front door payoff, this prison term without the previous preventive. She again lies on the altar to Aphrodite, this fourth dimension naked and suppliant. I begin again in earnest, the kisses, 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 essence as the portals of mankind spreadhead afford before me and I commence to guttle its crease. The tempo of thing has quickened, a pant then a recollective moan and her clamping thighs bury me in the impulse folds.


I lose caterpillar tread of time. Has my sojourn here been only a few minutes or stretched into hours or days ? Did I dream this surrealistic Ecstasy…. her thigh 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 prick brand ? I look in her face and her lips mouth a curious password that begins with `` F. '' I do not take heed her but the words stop as I watch the Army helmet disappears. Now the calendar method of birth control of the dance overtakes me and the Army helmet appears and vanishes at the vena portae of Mankind. That soldier is fighting a ferocious battle. To the victor belongs the spoilation and the vanquish happily receives my semen. Battle won, the combatants crawl into each other 's arms as sleep enfolds us.

With a detent, MORNING variant on NPR fills the way with the sounds of realness. We cuddle together, wondering if the fantasy was real, afraid to break up the spell if we ask. My inflexible shaft and the slick coating of her sheepfold convinced us it was and might be again. Immediately she is mounted to that task. Such urgency on a still sleepy morning, steel meeting flabby shape then a gushing deposit warms her inside. Sated, I switch off the word and rise to shower and begin the finale, breakfast. She eats but a picayune, grapefruit, tea, a bite of omelette and one from a refreshful broil roll. Work beckons me ; there is never enough time. We leave each other at the most inopportune sentence. Her osculation at the doorway makes me believe in illusion again. The portal vein Of man remain my Arc de Triumphe .