Let’s not make this a long discussion, hm? You know that I prefer our communication to occur in grunts, groans, and moans. But you’ve had a lot of questions and it’s gotten rather tiresome. Let me break it down for you, okay?

Part One: The Dress

You knew it’d have to be this way, from the moment you bit your bottom lip to give it that extra pop of blood plumping color. Sitting at the dinner table, legs crossed, black dress–fucking that black dress–riding up your thighs. Like I didn’t see you scotch around in an attempt to pull it down. As if that would prevent me from taking a peek under the tablecloth to see what skimpy piece of lace might be barely concealing your place. Your warm embrace. My homebase.

Tie and blazer cast aside with little regard for their fate as soon as the apartment door is thrust opened and then kicked closed. My hands pulling at the stretchy fabric of your dress—which you always tease me for finding so enchanting–to find what ensemble you hid beneath. Sometimes it’s nothing. And nothing can be a very pleasant gift. You always have a tendency to pout and playfully squirm when my hands advance down that gorgeous dip of your child-bearing hips until they’re rolling inward towards the treasure clutched between your thighs.

I’ll fall to my knees right here in the foyer, scrunch up the hem of your dress–and you’ll surely roll your eyes at the way I wrinkle it–and shove my tongue against your lace.

“Already soaking through your panties?”

My words always sound a bit more powerful when my lips are a perfect vacuum around your clit. I’ll tease you for a little while, my tastebuds pushing ever so slightly through the gaps in the fabric. Then I’ll hook my finger through that drenched thong, pull it aside and replace it with my tongue. I’m not one to disappoint. Maybe you’ll cum shivering against my face right here, your fingers searching for support along the wall or through my hair.

And it’s all so that–

Part Two: The Caveman

When you’re on your back, mouth half-open in the drooling pleasure of a mind-melting fuck, your pussy will already be soaking wet with my spit and your cum. I can slide right into that torrid room and fall into a deep, bass-like rhythm until I finish. And you know when I wrap my fingers around your neck, thumb just to the side of your esophagus, my cockhead goes swollen with anticipation. Tighter and tighter and tighter makes me drunk with a ball-bursting need.

You and I both know that men are barely-evolved Neanderthals. We like to mark what’s ours. So let me paint a sticky, dripping portrait of webbed sperm inside your picture perfect pussy. Let me ruin it with a temporary mess. And when I pull out I’ll be sheathed in the uncourtly mingling of your juices and mine, so when you suck me off like a good and proper slut you can taste the culmination of our fuck. Then I can pat you on the head, smack you on the ass, and help you clean it up.

Part Three: Our Anatomy

Of course it wouldn’t always happen that way. But I don’t see how I could possibly pull out when you’re on your belly, face smushed into a bevy of decorative pillows–why do you have so many fucking pillows?--and both of your ass cheeks are squeezed between my palms. I’ll push inward, your legs pressed tightly together, so that I can see them get slightly displaced each time my cock disappears inside your bright pink cunt. And, god, it’s fucking tight. Do you have any idea what it feels like to count each individual rugae drag over my taut skin? You’re fucking ribbed for my pleasure, so what do I need a condom for?

Speaking of those glorious ridges, did you know they’re there so that your perfect little slit can stretch just enough to accomodate me? I mean, you have to fit me somehow, don’t you? God knows you’re much to shallow without a little elasticity.

Are you gonna unnnnnnffff when I stretch you out? Because when my fingers are digging in enough to leave the slightest purple of bruises, I can’t hear anything other than that wet sliding of dick and suction, those muffled moans and frantic breathing, and the bed frame creaking from our sacrilegious sex (the neighbors must hate us). So, really, can I stop then and remember to pull out? Can you even afford to remind me? When my entire weight is on top of you, driving my brutally swollen cock as deep as it’ll go, are you really going to care if I squish my sack against your outer lips and empty a tablespoon of cum against your cervix?

Conclusion

Let’s be real. You want it. You always grab at me, your nails slipping and sliding until they dig a little into my shoulder blades. Your legs closing around my hips in a needy embrace. You know that you want to feel that violent convulsion of my cock unloading like a pop of champagne. Pumping and pumping and finally dripping the final threads of an elixir that soothes you better than any bubble bath or lavender oil or pedicure.

Now come on, I’ll ask one more time, can I finish inside?

Because when we’re done and sharing a bit of Rocky Road in bed, I want to see the slightly sticky sparkle of my cum is still glistening on your legs.

I rest my case. Now, I would greatly appreciate it if you submitted your rebuttal or (as is more likely) acquiescence in a timely fashion. We've got more important things to do than chat, don't we?