Ross wanted to know what it was like...

Ross wanted to know what it was like, and so he asked--and she told him.
'It's like being taken out on a gold thread, and then coming back,' she'd said.
'Rising to the stars?'
'Let's do it,' she'd continued. 'Let's, then I'll tell you. As we go along, I'll tell you, Ross. Give a commentary. Would you like that?'
And she was going to, too! She wasn't kidding.
'I dunno...' He had said he didn't know!
So she said, 'I'd like to fuck you. You'd like to fuck me. Let's have fun, Ross. Lots of fun. So you'll use me and I'll use you. What's wrong with any of that?'
It's free pussy, stupid! She'd like to have said that, and out loud too. But didn't. Resisted. Best not, right?
'I dunno. Christ...You're so young...Hell, you're amazing...You sure you want to do this?'
She'd felt, Oh Gawd...! But went on, anyway, said, 'I've wanted to all evening. But if you're feeling uncomfortable...Too many things in your way...'
Like being an idiot! But she didn't say this... Said, instead, 'You know, a lot of people can't handle it... It's okay. I don't mind. It's okay, Ross.'
She'd then patted his hand, like he was a child.

Do women think this is easy?

J was in aggressive mood. Mode too.
This is how it is, see? Let him tell me, me being his friend.
Not his choice, see. Capisce?
He didn't make the rules. He is not Nature. Is he Nature? Does he look like Nature?
Does he look like he has the laws of biophysics, biochemistry, bio-the-fuck--whatever I want to call them, call them what I like--under his fingertips?
Do women--women, you know...women?--think this is easy?
A guy always wanting to fuck somebody else?
They think that he is having this great time, wanting to fuck this somebody else--and not the babe he has been with. Like he has and still is? Sort of.
If I know what he means.
His current girlfriend springing to mind.
Say it had been up to him, suppose it had been his call. Just suppose he had in fact been Nature.
Well, he'd have made it different, friend.
He'd have made it so that he was faithful and never even looked at anybody else--so faithful would he be. Never looked...even ever. In his life.
In his whole fuckin' life.
What he'd have done. An obvious call, you ask him.
How practical, how convenient...friend.
He wouldn't have to spend fortunes of money that serial fucking takes. And that just for starters. Only starters.
What about all the other shit that flies...?
Do I know what he means? All the other shit...?
But guess what, it has not been up to him. And he has had nothing to do with making it the way it was--and is. Is...okay? Is.
Have I got that?
And, know what, he will have to carry on spending fortunes of money on serial fucking. Like he is doing this minute, on somebody he has just met.
Not the actual babe he is with. Sort of with. Being his current girlfriend. He is spending money on somebody else too.
Actually, he is in the mood to put everything on the expense account, and fuck them all.
Why shouldn't he? Let the fuckin' company pay, they owe him. Owe him plenty, my friend.
Oh yes, they do. They do, and they know they do.
J was in aggressive, lemme-tell-you-something mood and mode. He was up to here...
Here, see.
J cut his throat.
Fuckin' women, he went on, can't they understand?
For fuckin' once? Once...in his life.
Not fuckin' rocketry either, just plain facts...
He didn't make the rules did he? Did he make the rules? Rules of bio-fuckin'-what. Bio-fuckin'-whatever.

Live in essentials

She said that for a live in relationship to work the guy must always pay the utilities and never count a woman's shoes.
She was serious. Very.

Politics of Sex

His wife is the true expert, not he. She understands the politics of the thing. At this his wife is a superstar.
Sex is important to her, but only as a bargaining chip. To this truth he has come: His wife rather trades or barters than enjoys the thing. She invests herself, and so cannot afford the pleasure. She prefers power to pleasure. His wife is brilliant at the politics. At the politics, she is Machiavelli.
He says this without apparent bitterness, as if this were a law of Nature itself. A universal thing without any personal malice toward him. He is simply another of Nature's fools. Or, as he calls himself, a dope.

Orgasms are like...or not

To her sister, orgasms were like being hit on the funny bone, but nicely. Did that make sense? Being hit on the pelvic-spinal funny bone, kind of radiating, but nicely?
She herself would not know, has never had any, or so she thinks.
To her orgasms were probably more like somebody trying to lift a five hundred pound weight. Not nice.
Far as she could tell, making orgasms out as best she could, this was more like what orgasms were. Female ones.
But she supposed they existed, there were such things as orgasms. You know, she has read reports of their existence, seen studies. Kinsey, Alfred Kinsey. Masters and Johnson. God, Cosmo was full of them.
You couldn't turn a page without...
Oh? Lifting five hundred pound weights? An interesting concept, and he was interested.
'Most of us can't lift five hundred pound weights,' she went on. 'And for those of us who can, is it worth it? Do you want to do it? I mean, lift five hundred pounds?'
Put that way, he conceded, this did not seem much like fun.
You watched these Olympic weightlifters on TV, she continued. Especially the extra heavyweights, she thought they called them. Were they having fun?
But at least...one, two, three. And all over. The Olympic weightlifter did or didn't.
One, two, three...seconds. Not five, ten, fifteen...minutes. More even, thirty, maybe forty...minutes. Trying to have an orgasm, trying to lift a weight too much.
Lifting heavy weights and possible orgasmic dysfunction. First he'd heard it put this way, and it didn't sound all that implausible.

Sex tip for girls (1)

She was giving advice she thought would be good to pass on.
So girls...when you get down on your knees and he raises your skirt completely and slips down your panties. And stops... You know what's happening, don't you?
He is having a good look.
Well, her advice is, go the whole ball game and let him. And as long as he wants.
Cosmo has said that men are very visual. Aren't they just! So let him eyeball all he wants.
To look good...firm, rounded curves help, and it will be an extra turn on for him to see you are cleanly shaven. And, after all, clearly blonde--not bottle blonde.

What happened at the Party (2)

She was talking about the B-T's party. The night of the big party, some Middle Eastern woman, admittedly strikingly beautiful, passed behind her guy. Her man... Anyway, well to the side. But some kind of side-scanning extra sexsory perception that her guy possessed picked something up. His facial expression registered a blip of some kind, a barely noticeable tic.
Though she is convinced that this was completely unconscious.
Still, she cannot deny the thing either. Totally innocently, completely unaware, something passed over her guy's features--like a bad line crossing the screen in a poorly recorded video movie playback. Unsettling the viewer's focus.
So...She'd best be warned, shouldn't she be?
But then again, while they were slow dancing, she induced in her guy that especially heavy lead pipe between her belly button and that other place. Surely, not everybody did? It lay flat against her, poking up at the ballroom ceiling. Not anybody could do that, surely?
She hates to think so, so she's quit thinking.
Enough, enough, let her stop... Already she's said enough.

What happened at the party (1)

While slow dancing with his girl at some fancy party, he'd backed into this woman. Persian, was his guess.
He'd backed right into her as she made some kind of turn. Found he'd backed into at least two terrifics, one being for pure sexiness. Felt some heat there, a response. AAaahhhh!
Turned his head around to catch black eyes, black hair, red lips. And from that body...The Heat, pure pussy radiating through her dress. Sweaty thigh heat of a repressed womanhood, resurging.
AAaaaaahhh! He'd been with that kind of body heat before, kind of instant heat. Like a cat electrocuting itself.
All the fuckin' same, he could have gone places with this Persian babe. Say on a Persian carpet? Heh! heh! Gone places with her, given a realistic chance. A realistic chance, and not something practically suicidal--his girl being present and on full alert. So it was not to be, of course. One of those things. Fuckin' one of those things.
Did I know what he meant?
'Dollar for your thoughts, John?' His girl had asked. 'You suddenly seem so thoughtful.'
'Just thinking, just thinking,' he'd answered.
What was he going to say? Tell her that he'd just backed into the hottest pussy at the party? Ask her to give him some space to see what he could do?

Dopes make the best husbands

Dopes, he'd read somewhere, made the best husbands. Dopes, and saps too. Maybe they made the best anything, when it came to women--provided they had the wealth. Maybe he was a wealthy dope.
Dopes made the best husbands...and, guess what? Maybe compulsive sex slaves made the best wives, you ask him. Wives who defined themselves by the number of times they made their husbands come. The more they did, the better they were as wives, in their minds. His, anyway.
'See, I am my orgasms,' he said, trying not to sound too dopey. 'We are all just our orgasms. All we can do is try and make them good and memorable. We are our orgasms and our memories. That is all. And so damn what?'

Getting pregnant, getting jilted

She was counting her blessings. Hooboy, one thing she's been saved...Getting pregnant...Being, y'know, unmarried. Then the man whose child you are carrying, turns around, turns on you and says, You're on your own, I'm leaving.
That must be the hardest thing.
She was willing to risk having his baby, risk other things, disease even, humiliation. And then he does this to her, tells her...
What she didn't know was how all that lay directly before her, within the week.

Masturbation was not as good as fucking, provided that...

When you came right down to it, masturbation wasn't as good as fucking—when fucking was done well by a peaceable woman who knew the moves. You know, knew the moves. Could dance the steps, knew the rhythm.
But how many women knew the moves, when you came down to it? Not many. And jacking off had it over fucking in diamonds when it came to the hassle factor. Oh man, jacking off won hands down when you factored in hassle and a woman not at peace.
Masturbating also gave him some of his most powerful orgasms. Timing was always perfect, see, because he controlled the clock. And orgasm is timing, timing, timing! Timing, convenience, no hassles.
Only real problem, he couldn't fantasize well without having somebody viable in mind. And anybody viable was becoming more and more difficult. Marilyn Monroe was not viable, she was dead. And Jennifer Lopez lived in Hollywood, so he would have to include a fantasy plane trip which he didn't want to do.
He jacked off less when he courted, more when he was single—and most when married.The kids, he supposed. But if he could find the time, why couldn't she?
I didn't say because maybe somebody had to look after the kids.

Good advice to young huntin' and fishin' women—on sex

Were he to give advice to any young woman setting out to hook, land and keep an eligible young man, he would advise her not to start off her faking on too sensational, dramatic and grand a scale. Keep it low key, he would advise. Low key—and at a level that can be continued with, month after month. A level comfortably credible and without real strain.
After all, no guy wants to think his performance has slipped. Therein lies ruin.
And a young woman should recognize and know ruin: Ruin befalls a huntin' woman any time a guy is fucking her less than, say, three times a week.
Three times a week, or more, and the young woman has a viable ultimatum. She is only a step away from the altar rail.
Less than twice a week, and it takes a shotgun.
Any case, perfectly obvious advice, he would say.

Being out of luuv

Oh, and another thing, he was out of luuv.
This is his description of falling out of love: Some time between that magic moment when you first saw her—and tonight, maybe yesterday... Whenever that butterfly undusted its wings.
That is how fragile, how delicate a thing. A butterfly undusted its wings.

Z's of the world have so little

Poor, sad Z.
Some women had so little. So little, did Z's of this world have.
Lived endlessly complicated lives, of course.
The style of a little girl's shoes meant the world, how a dress fit over a navel too. How a dress hung over a navel, the way a curtain dropped, was everything. Meant the world. So very little, they had.
The shape of a shadow cast by a table leg on a carpet at twilight was important for the Z's of the world. If it wasn't right for a Z, the table went into the attic. The shape of a shadow by twilight was that important.
He recalled his own Z... Recalled her on the carpet on her elbows and knees, looking at the shadow, deciding the fate of an antique table. And how he'd had the urge to jump her right then, that time long ago, drop her panties in one, smooth flash and grab.
But he hadn't. No, he had not. Would it all have been different, say he had?

Finding her clitoris

When as a young man, destined for great loverdom, he first came across a clitoris—or rather, didn't—he said it was like parting a curtain to seek some wily genie.
And he soon found himself asking himself whether there was such a thing as Triple Clitoris syndrome?
Or did this 'genie' wander? Today here, gone tomorrow.
He didn't know. Thing disappeared, moved. You half saw it, you didn't. You felt it, you didn't.
Instinctively he knew this needed study—pretty intense study, at that.
'Now where to?' he'd ask.
'A little to the left...,' she'd day. And he'd try.
'Higher.' Higher? Earlier it had been lower. Anyway, remained unseen, unfelt.
'Where to now?' he'd persist.
He said in a way this was not very different from watching his dad navigate a car through unfamiliar terrain with his mom reading the map and giving directions. It had that same feeling, but you couldn't say anything.
Nonetheless study he would, master this he had to.
'You have the patience of a ghost,' one more skilled teacher/partner said mysteriously.
Apparently he was still learning.

Orgasm trouble

She was twenty nine, beautiful—and was having a little trouble with her orgasms.
As far as she could make out, this was what: Women could never have orgasms, they could only let themselves go. Relax. Like you could never force yourself to sleep, you could only let yourself go to sleep. Relax. Kind of give yourself permission.
Yes, but...apparently not quite what she meant.
What she meant, she means women can never force themselves to have orgasms. Force orgasm upon themselves. Like...You are unable to force yourself to love somebody. Love happened—or not.
'Sleep happens. Orgasm happens. Love happens. Just happens.'
She began to get emotional, seemed to be asking his help.
He fixed her a glass of cold water.

For whom is she advertising her availability?

The successful Wall Street broker has his opinion. So...what are girls made for? He suggested trying a little...adding up. A little simple arithmetic.
Why else did they wear skimpy, come-feel-them halters, and tight, see-my-pussy shorts or jeans? Jamming and drawing themselves in so tight as to draw a picture...Clear damn picture of a little indented straight line with everything showing. Picture entitled, See-My-Line, Get-In-Right-Here, Successful-Wall-Street-Man!
Why else did they draw this kind of map-to-their-pussy in their skin-tights?
What else could the logic be?
And don't tell him this picture was not very carefully designed, studied and signed off on with the help of a large, full length mirror?
What else could the logic be of pouring herself into a sweater to sculpt a display of nipples under the intense pressure of a size much too small?
To Wall Street Man the math was: One plus one made two. They wanted, invited a fuck. And he was ready to oblige. One plus one made two.
What did I think, he wanted to know?
I said no doubt about it. Something was being advertised here. They were advertising availability. Availability was being promoted. They were ready to put out.
But for whom? Who was invited to the party? Everybody, or only Prince Charming?
'Wall Street,' said Wall Street Man.

Sex and women again—this time flowers

Sex was to a woman as flowers were to a man, she went on. What she meant was that girls thought of sex much like guys thought of flowers... For women, giving sex was like guys giving flowers. The other party seem to enjoy it, see. She laughed.
And all this while she had been giving him head. Interrupted, of course. As it happened, he said he'd had mixed feelings when she told him, and he'd have preferred not to know. He would not ask for her again.

A simple slut is what she is—and proud to be

'I think you're wonderful. Fantastic. You know what, you're great.'
'Don't...' She is a young slut on vac in Paris and proud to be what she is...a simple slut.
'I think...I think you are the salt of this earth.'
Jeez, know what, never heard that before.
Jeez...Salt of the...earth! Sounds, well, weird.
But she knows what he means. He means well. He means she is not what she is, a slut. According to him, and maybe he means it. But she'd rather he didn't. She is pure slut, see. Pure and simple slut and proud, what she is.
And she prefers to be real. So she asks, more like states, 'But you wouldn't like any of your daughters to pick up an older guy in a Paris bar?'
'I don't know. Right now, I'm feeling. I dunno...I know not.'
'But I do. You wouldn't...And you're wrong.'
'Guess what, I'm not thinking about my daughters this minute...' He has his hands over her nipples.

Why women are impossible to live with

He was a man who had been left some money in trusts, had a little time to spare, and he needed and wanted to know—so he asked. And his psychiatrist friend told him. Told him the only way you get along with a woman in your life—all your life, and hers too—is to do everything she says, all the time.
One night, the psychiatrist explained, she'll ask you if you don't mind—or, would you like—doing the dishes, and you will.
Next night, she'll ask you if you would like, or don't mind, doing the dishes and taking the dog for a walk, and you will.
And the next night she'll ask if you don't mind, or would you like, doing the dishes, taking the dog for a walk, and taking out the garbage, and you will.
And the night after that she'll ask you if you would like, or don't mind, doing the dishes, taking the dog for a walk, taking out the garbage, vacuuming the fucking carpet, and cleaning the bath tub rim too—and you won't.
And that will be it, then it's over.
See, said the psychiatrist, they set these ever bigger hurdles. Know why? Because they have it figured out that what they're asking is so wacky and unreasonable that if the guy actually does what they ask this can only be because the guy must love them, can be no other reason. Letting her walk all over him makes her secure and warm. Maybe a little bored too, can't be helped, but she'll shop to compensate.
Obviously the psychiatrist is gay, as many of them are. But he thought this does not detract much from what he'd said. Only that tone—and the little barb at the end.

Beautiful little Rich Girl

She was born rich, beautiful too, and twenty was all she was.
She needed no man to secure her, she had no cellulite, she didn't want to be Madonna. Just herself.
She didn't even follow her own horoscope. Much.
She liked to fuck a man once and walk away. Once was enough.
She didn't even lie. Very much. And certainly not for the usual reasons.
And if she had a best friend, she would fuck her friend's husband.

Being a Happy Slut

She was spoilt, beautiful and very young—and she was trying to explain her sexual needs and philosophy. Honestly.
When it came to herself and men—to put matters at their pure and simple best—all she wanted was casually and regularly to engage in sex with as many men as appealed to her. She enjoyed being simply and uncomplicatedly promiscuous.
Admittedly, she was a slut, if a slut was:
(a) a woman deemed to be promiscuous,
(b) a woman who regularly engaged in casual sex,
(c) a sexually promiscuous woman,
(d) a woman who has sexual relationships with a lot of men,
or even,
(e) a fornicatress.
In terms of any of these dictionary meanings she was a slut, pure and simple. And she was prepared to cut all the bullshit that came in between. All the lying and justifying and euphemizing.
Being a slut for her was simply being true to herself.
And above all, you needed to be true to yourself—truly. Didn't you?
She wanted to know.
He said that sluts were among his favorite women.

Faking (2)

According to him, a very wealthy inheritance man, his wife had always performed sex. And even the performance deteriorated.
Come to think of it, he said, in retrospect—and as things cooled down—she got to sound less and less convincing. And more and more like a big dog after a long, hard run.

Should he tell her?

It's like, it's like...Nature abhors permanency.
There, 'zactly what it is!
He wanted to know, Should he tell her?
Give her the old bottom line? Would this help?
Suppose he gave her the old bottom line...Told her the truth, that, know what, he could never be permanently faithful. Nature abhors permanency, but, know what, don't worry...
Like right after their Honolulu trip he felt totally fucked out with her. And who wouldn't be, considering how much they'd done! But the cute Japanese air hostess in first class appealed to him, with her cute, round, tight ass as she bent over and stretched forward to pour coffee. Damn...!
Should he have told her? Told her, tell her, Be okay, don't worry. He'd never actually have taken off with the cute Jap hostess—or anybody else, see—only fucked this anybody else. Which is not the same thing. Come right back home to her and the kids. Kisses goodnight and pats on the head for everybody.
And flowers for her too because he'd fucked somebody else.
He and she, his wife, would still be together forever. But, also see, he needed to fuck other babes too. Had this need.
Jeez, the man in him can't help it. Can't be helped, how it is.
See, suits are like women are like suits. No matter how elegant, how in fashion, how beautiful, any one suit always ended up boring a man--especially a man who loved suits. Why he has thirty two.
Nature abhors permanency...
In three little words. Nature...
Blame nature, don't blame him. Not his fault. Not hers either.
In three words.
Interesting question is, should he have told her? Should he tell her? Will this help? End the fucking nagging?

How it feels for a woman—by a man

Having posted a knowledgeable and experienced Las Vegas casino hooker's ideas on what the average woman feels about sex (How it felt for a woman, 14 January, 2008), here are the thoughts of a male—a male knowledgeable, experienced. And a heavy consumer of sex.
S speaks to men--and puts, or tries to put, himself in the female mind:

Men with little sexual experience often have a hard time (imagining this)...Imagine yourself at a time when you were a young man without an appropriate outlet. You certainly were susceptible to sexual stimulation.
Now imagine that at that stage of you life, you were approached by a toothless grandmother of 60 plus, who tried to get you into bed with her.
You decline? Why? Because the whole thing just isn't right, and you are not aroused.
Now, to the best of my knowledge, that's about how women feel most of the time when they are approached by a man. It's not that they wouldn't be sexually excitable. It's just that they are not excitable as randomly as men.

S also says that the secret to abundant sex in a man's life is location, location, location. And location. You can find S at asiatours.com.

How it felt for a woman

A Las Vegas hooker catering to the casino's high rollers was telling him about what women felt about sex. Apparently she liked and trusted him enough to share this.
Sexually speaking, P told him, a woman generally and permanently felt like a man who has just had an orgasm. Near as P could make out, okay? With all her experience and knowledge, that was pretty close to what a woman felt. And she was pretty knowledgeable, and experienced, wouldn't he agree?
So, as a man who had just had an orgasm, did he feel like sex any time soon? No, she wanted the truth, okay? He felt a little flat, right? Right. Needed lots of tender foreplay to get him up again, wouldn't he agree? And time, time too. Exceptions to the ordinary existed, of course, P said. But that's what it was generally like, being a woman. You feel a little flat, sexually speaking—all the time.
Thinking about how he felt, after his orgasm, how flat flat was, he found the concept unappealing. It was going to take much tender foreplay to get him up again, even more than what was usually the case. In fact, he felt like going to dinner instead.

Spoilt, lazy daughters

But of course, said the successfully married—and now rich and powerful—mother: Her darling, lazy, spoilt daughters haven't had to bother.
She'd done so well for everyone. Too well. Nailing their rich and powerful father when it mattered. Panting for him when she had to, men were so easily fooled. Men like their rich and powerful father easiest of all. They liked to hear a girl pant, the harder the better.
And getting pregnant clinched everything, of course.

Avoiding involvememt

He was disclosing how he planned to avoid 'involvement' with somebody very attractive he had just met. And who also scared the hell out of him.
He started by misquoting Machiavelli: 'A man who mistrusts his emotions is more than half saved...'
But...here was the plan...
Look, he knew a very beautiful hooker. Call girl, in fact. He would call this exclusive call girl... (How 'exclusive' is a call girl?) Ask her to call on him tomorrow.
She was very expensive—as expensive as she was exclusive—but cost effective at the price. (Is 'exclusivity' price-related?)
Anycase, an envelope discreetly placed in her Chanel bag was all that was called for. She did not lock her Chanel bag, she was that discreet.
No jealousies either—except about other call girls. And this was just business jealousy. Also, no insecurities about him. No politics, no serious manipulation of him.
Apparently they never fought, she brought all her own toys, had seemingly easy orgasms by the ton in multiples of three. Good for her, he said. Implying, If she did I'm glad...but I'm not that naive.
She even had a kind of orgasm giving him head. As he said this, his face screwed in disbelief.
Heck, they even talked, the two of them, he said.
Sometimes she'd crack a couple of eggs for the two of them, fry bacon. He had to remind himself, sometimes, she was a hooker. A beautiful hooker, strictly on business, frying bacon and eggs.
So that was the plan, and what did I think?
I tried to sound hopeful. But obviously not hopeful enough because he began all over again.

The Boss, his daughter, and J

J was in complaining mood.
He'd been wondering why the Boss had been so good to him. And now he was convinced that he'd found out why, after all.
The Boss wanted to marry off his little girl, trade her for his, J's, little place in the House. A place at the high table in The Wall Street House the Boss had built.
Apparently, the Boss was about as subtle as a House pre-dawn takeover bid.
But what's the complaint?
What has ever changed?
The rich bazaar merchant, his marriageable daughter on the shelf, her prospective husband—and the husband's dowry?
How to move otherwise unwanted merchandise by making a special offer of a discount daughter with House coupons attached.
Has it ever changed? The rich man, his daughter, her fiancee, the finances, some finessing.
Maybe J should have been glad he was worth finessing, but he wasn't in the mood to hear it.
Or so he said.
Probably he wasn't complaining after all. More like boasting.

Sexy implants

Bumping into a cocktail waitress who worked the casino floor, he saw her look down to her breasts.
Again, she looked.
Then, God, it dawned! Her implants had been done! They were bigger, more rounded, closer together—more sexy than they had ever been.
But, see, the irony had obviously escaped her.
Her implants had been done to make her more sexy. A point reinforced even as he examined them while she balanced her drinks tray, and allowed his inspection to pass. Here she was, faking a so-called erogenous zone through having wasted and destroyed under the surgeon's knife whatever feeling she'd ever had there. This 'erogenous zone' now comprised two unfeeling implants!
Not only had a basic numbness resided between her legs, but now also did it reside in her fake breasts!
And no doubt should some unwitting male ever fondle either sexy looking implant, she would fake some kind of ecstasy!
'Beautiful, really beautiful,' he faked.
And, pleased, she swept away.

How she finished with her virginity

"Lie on your back. Take your pants down. Keep your legs together."
Aha, at least this one was functional. Hard, very functional. Hooooray!
So he was easy, very easy to mount—to cap. Especially when wet.
"And now I'm going to fuck the come out of you."
''I jest...
''Shut up. And keep your legs together."
''Cain't I...''
"I said, Shut up!"
She topped, capped and trapped him. Draped and covered him in silky, wet velvet.
And proceeded to fuck the come out of him.
Which took no time at all.
She felt the wet, but hardly any emotion. And she got very little from it, except this: She'd finished with something troubling her, pestering her—her virginity.
Felt like, Good...she'd done it. Dunnit!
Surpisingly, we all believed her.
She was telling us how she lost her virginity. Weird story, but we all believed everything she said. And the guy was a biker!