Plainly put, my regular play partner achieves completion too easily (the lucky little slut). Now, don't get me wrong; having such an orgasmically gifted good girl at my disposal certainly has its benefits. The intoxicating sensation of bringing her cum count up to double digits in a single session is a heady brew. But it's a simple sort of satisfaction. And I crave more.
I miss the challenge of decoding a woman's body, analyzing and understanding every gasp, moan, and squeal as I learn the intricacies and contours of her form. I want to feel the goose flesh rise on her arms when I kiss that secret spot below her ear (you know the area I'm talking about, the one most men don't know exists). I hunger for the moment my tongue finally tastes the parting of her lips - but not before tracing the curve of her inner thigh with agonizing deliberation. I yearn for that sweet release, that blissful beat when her legs shake, her body melts, her mind is immersed in waves of ecstacy.
I know you're out there. Perhaps no one has managed to perform this forbidden feat for you yet. More likely, no one has put in the time to understand exactly what it is that makes you tick. You suffer silently, sifting though the masses of a million mediocre men, all of whom clamor for your attention, claiming to be cunning linguists. But we both know none of them will ever speak to you like I will.
Consent and chemistry are key. And, to be clear, my regular play partner is aware and supportive. Lastly, reciprocity is neither requested nor expected; I thirst for a type of gratification that can only be sated in my mind.
If you find yourself titillated by my writing, then you should know I'm as talented with my tongue as I am with my keyboard. Come find out.
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