[Hey, man! I'm real high on a potpourri of pills, litany of libations, and a motley of miscellaneous mind,-altering medicaments. So my harangue is forgiven, no?]
Oh, yes! How could I ever have let it escape my mind?! I forgot to mention that I favor other kinds of sex, apart from violently fucking the soon-to-be-sore pudenda of a previously respectable lady (whilst she is all the while assuming that comical permanent pushup-pose of a canine).
For example, I also find the idea of an innately obedient and biddable bawd incredibly arousing and the thought of such a lady as my own to, well, own never fails to produce a conspicuous, bulging protuberance beneath the fabric of my pants.
My gf since the past four years is naturally, spontaneously, and totally submissive—which is one of several principal attributes in her possession, in all earnest, that prevents me from divagating from only one bitch (i.e., her) and resuming my usual philandering via my normal 5-step program for spoiling and romancing (heh) the fairer sex (and dispelling any vicious, unsubstantiated rumors that I'm no more than a lecherous womanizer and sexist voluptuary, forthwith):
And so after I'd start my day in the traditional fashion which is consisting of roughly 500mL Coirvoisier, ~800 mg Mandrax (the chef and purveyor of which happening to both remain well-stocked and closely acquainted to yours truly), a few deep breaths of Diethyl ether, two dozen N20 whippets, a pinch of narcobarbital, a soupçon of hydromorphone, a little of some homemade ethchlorvynol (and chloral hydrate coupled with fludiazepam for later when I can't sleep), and a lot of my friend of a friend's amyl nitrite I got for my 21st Bday. But, I'm rambling.
Anyway, my strategy to inveigle an easy lay to allow my cock somewhere inside her typically goes in sequence, thusly:
1. impress and mack, 2. undress and shack, 3. ingress and thwack, 4. egess and relax, 5. redress, repack, and then never call back.
In other words, pouncing on the poon, a few hard bangs and some harsh booms, I climax and splooge, then hurriedly abscond in case the strumpet wakes up too soon.
It's out of force of habit, you know? I'm really a sensitive, guy. And I sincerely find the meandering twaddle and galling gabfest about some chick's inane workplace escapades and tales about her adventures in a Macy's checkout line just as titillating as her tits and as alluring as her ass.
But, and I'm being honest here (and not that feigned honesty either, but that pure, authentic I-took-too-much-phenobarbital-and-cannot-stop-myself-from-saying-things-I'll-probably-regret-tomorrow kind of honesty you can believe in), nothing gets the blood flowing to the phallus faster nor as strong than an attractive young girl wearing nothing but a collar and greeting you with "sir", a graciously executed obeisance, and a wholly kinesic and unarticulated, yet still piercingly audible and unmistakable, begging to be dominated.
She's probably purling away at a mental karaoke of the lyrics to The Stooge's I Wanna Be Your Dog . And I cannot seem to control my impulsive and enthusiastic crooning of that Rolling Stone's song Under My Thumb . While we sing to a different chorus, the coitus is on the same tune.
Well, that about does it for my lurid, lubricious, barbiturate-inspired confessions at this prurient, pornographic powwow.
