Maybe she doesn’t give in to it right away and my zipper slides down and her hand removes the swollen implement. My waist unbuttoned, she pulls my trousers, then black cotton briefs to my knees. Sex To the victor belongs the spoils and the vanquished happily receives my seed. I suckle softly, baby-like, increasing my suction and force until I am a ravenous man, devouring this source of sustenance. I am a phylogynist, a lover of women. Maybe she doesn’t give in to it right away and my zipper slides down and her hand removes the swollen implement. The Portals Of Mankind remain my Arc de Triumphe. There you are; sliding against the body you long to pleasure, swaying to the rhythm of the music not unlike the rhythmical, surging pulse of lovemaking. Battle won, the combatants crawl into each other’s arms as sleep enfolds us. Will she? Do I need to go before? There is no time to wonder, as with a gasp I erupt in near Vesuvian style. Such urgency on a still sleepy morning, steel meeting soft flesh then a gushing deposit warms her inside. She pushes down and squeezes, the urge of release rears momentarily in my sack and then subsides. She is fastidious about herself, hygiene, hair, makeup, clothes. We like to touch dance, there is no more
