No! It's time for you to try the last unexplored
sexual lifestyle, with sexual techniques that have been passed down
for thousands of years. Vanilla sex. Just like your parents used to
do. Well, maybe your grandparents. Or the elderly neighbors.
Vanilla sex is comprised of a small variety of
sexual maneuvers acted out by two (2) people. Paraphernalia is
limited to non-decorative, non-vibrating birth control and a
limited range of toys. But that hardly begins to touch on the
wonders and magic of vanilla sex. Just look at the advantages:
- Dramatically shortened prep time, leaves
more time for late night television
- No special equipment needed, a big
money-saver
- Fast cleanup; no worries about rust, wear
or dry rot
- Convenient positions leave hands and mouths
free
- Less chance of injuries from restraints,
chokers, electrical shock or accidental drowning
- Easier to become presentable when
unexpected guests arrive, e.g. parents, campus security, the
Rapture, the pizza guy
- It can be performed nearly anywhere,
without special loadbearing rafters or reinforced bannisters
- Less frantic movement is involved, which
means there's less chance you'll be distracted and miss any of the
game
- Lessened chance of children, visitors or
pets accidentally finding your favorite rubber devices
- Usually over before your cigarette goes
out
- With care, you might not even wake her
To illustrate, I'll describe a typical sexual act
for you now. Much of it may seem strange, even perverted, to you,
but it is important that you keep an open mind. Many, many billions
of people have participated in similar acts; there is no shame for
you if you find that you enjoy them as well. Or at least not much
shame, anyway.
This act will be performed by a man and a woman. It
can be done with same-sex couples — homosexuals can be just as
bland as anyone else — but there is a greater chance of alternative
techniques to creep in.
The man and woman may sit and talk
to each other, possibly flirting and teasing each other into a mild
state of sexual readiness. Alcohol and “Barry White” music may be
involved. Either person may initiate contact, by touching the
other's face or hair, or by leaning forward for a kiss. No money
should change hands. Some preliminary cuddling and sex play
continues, during which most or all of the clothing may be removed
(carefully, so that it may be worn again) and oral sex may be
enjoyed. Be careful not to use anything exotic or organic here,
although canned whipped cream is just clichéd enough to be
okay.
Once the approved level of arousal is reached by
both lovers (or at least by the guy), sexual intercourse may be
initiated. The woman lays back on a bed or a couch and the man
lowers himself over her. Please note that he does not place his
boot on her head, or even bind her in any way. In return she does
not whip or strike him, nor does she verbally abuse him in any way.
That comes later, after the impotence is discovered. The man
inserts his reasonably stiffened penis into her vagina (she may
assist him) (she may need to) (who are we kidding) and begins to
thrust in and out in a rhythmic motion.
Um. That's it.
Well, she could flip over, or even get on
top, and he can lift her in the air or maybe switch back and forth
between oral sex and intercourse, but otherwise that's pretty much
it. But just think: after a few months of this, even the simplest
featherplay will seem like a deviant and sinful indulgence. And
doesn't that make it all worthwhile?
-------------------------
Self-Paced
Course
I never realized getting a soda could be
such a spiritual relief. Just opening the door and feeling the
cool, refrigerated air spill out over my feet helped me drift into
a calm and serene state of mind and helped me clear my thoughts of
any unwelcome intrusions.
Say, for example, the direction that the
conversation in the living room had just taken. It certainly wasn't
the first dirty talk the three of us had ever had, but I wasn't
comfortable with the direction it was going and my possible
involvement in it so I fled, discreetly, to let my wife and my
sister-in-law work it out amongst themselves.
I sat on my haunches and prepared myself
mentally to select the one true cola from its brotherhood of six,
all the while distracted by the rising, giggly voices in the other
room and the fact that I hadn't the slightest idea what a “haunch”
was. After an appropriate appraisal I made my choice, drew it from
its plastic harness and stood erect bearing the Coke that proved me
to be Vincent, rightful king of all England!
Through the walls, darkly, a sign that the
back-and-forth had reached the point I was hoping to avoid: “He
won't? !?” I cringed and decided to make the heart grow fonder for
a while. It was a nice night for a walk.
Nicole was sitting on the edge of the bed
running a brush through her long golden hair, over and over, when I
sat next to her. “Where were you off to tonight?” she asked.
I gently took the brush away and began
brushing her hair myself, letting one hand caress her neck and
shoulders while I groomed with the other. “It's finally getting
cooler, I thought I'd take a walk before the mosquitoes realize
it.” Beautiful hair. I've never met a woman yet who could resist
having her hair brushed or shampooed; Nicole's eyelids were
drooping already. “Are you as'eep?” I asked.
“Mmmm hmm.”
“Should I stop?”
“MM mmmm.”
I started using long strokes from the crown
of her head to the ends of her hair somewhere by her waist. As her
eyes closed and her chin rose I let my other hand stroke her face
and throat, always changing direction just short of her cleavage.
This was my way of finding out what her plans were for the evening.
If she was sleepy she could enjoy my ministrations in a loving,
tender way and then hold me for a bit before we both dozed off. Or,
she could… Without opening her eyes she placed her hand over mine
and squeezed gently, a little hug, before drawing it down into her
nightgown. I love her breasts. Wonderfully round and full, they
draw my touch like ripe fruit to a starving man. I roamed over
their surfaces, letting just my fingertips graze her skin. On a
down stroke I dropped the brush from my other hand and continued to
stroke her, both of us luxuriating in the feel of her silky hair
slipping through my fingers. She leaned backwards as I supported
the back of her head so that she ended up lying in my arms. We work
well together without really thinking about it, much like longtime
dance partners but with more moaning.
“Sir, your hand appears to be invading my
person,” she informed me.
“My most sincere apologies. I never know
what my right hand is doing.”
“Well, right now it's… ooh… stubbornly
avoiding my nipple.”
“I understand you chicks are sensitive
there, I thought I'd show some consideration before I slip you the
weasel.”
“You sweet talker, you.” She slid her hand
beneath my shorts and took firm possession of her play-toy.
“Madam, please! Have a care!”
“Got one. A big'un, too, don't you
think?”
“I never thought so… ah…, but who am I to…
oh, god… fly in the face of public opin… ah!” The dratted wench
knows 3 or 4 good strokes can drop my I. Q. 30 points in seconds
and she always likes trying to keep a conversation going just to
see how long I can answer coherently. I silently vowed cruel
revenge and decided to up the ante by suddenly thrusting my hand
further down the top of her nightgown and running my rigid middle
finger between her legs, resting it on the furry ridges there. She
gave an indescribable squeak and eased her thighs slightly, just
enough for my hand to move about, so it did. I gently stroked the
soft rises and warm valleys as we moved into a familiar race. Who
would break first? Place your bets! She took an early lead by
letting the head of my cock slip in and out of her hand as she
stroked but I closed the gap by opening hers, surrounding her clit
with my first two fingers and stroking back and forth. Under normal
circumstances — a better track, a lighter jockey — I could have
taken it, but the position we were in meant that as she stroked
downwards my penis continued to rub up against her wrist and arm
and the movements crushed her wonderfully cushy tits around my arm
while I was hampered by her nightgown from doing anything really
compelling. Obviously something had to be done.
“Ha, wench!” I cried as I twisted away
(carefully), sprang to my knees and whipped her nightgown over her
head, holding it there with one hand. Her body was revealed to me
from the waist down and I spent a few seconds admiring it. Smooth,
slightly rounded belly, a gentle slope to a light brown patch
surrounding full, pink lips. And wildly kicking legs, of course.
Ignoring her muffled cries of indignation I managed to get past her
defenses and place my hand over her sex. The heat of it surprised
me, as it always does, and I could feel her heartbeat against the
heel of my hand. Applying a bit of pressure I moved my palm in
large circles while my fingers probed and tickled. It was a bit of
a struggle holding her in place like that but it was working: my
hand was decidedly slick and she was pushing up to meet it on the
upswing. I leaped over her leg and, just as she yanked the
nightgown away from her face, I thrust into her in one long, fast
rush, pushing my pubic bone against hers and grinding.
I was just congratulating myself on having
gained the upper hand when she gazed up lovingly into my eyes,
smiled an angel smile and, after abruptly locking her legs together
around the small of my back, began hunching against me in a very
unladylike and remarkably effective manner. I held myself perfectly
still in an effort to withstand her assault and I’m certain that my
immobility and iron will were all that enabled me to last the
entire sixty seconds. She milked me to a pulsating orgasm made all
the more powerful by her clasping pussy and the feel of her strong
thighs working back and forth. Once I had finally stopped making
monkey noises she released her hold and let me relax. I rose up to
slide out of her and she breathed a sweet sigh of lust at the
sensation, twisting in obvious arousal. I let my hands trail down
her body, following her curves as she undulated underneath me.
Sitting back on my heels, I brought my hands to rest framing her
pussy, spreading it slightly. Her own hands crept slowly towards
her breasts as she kept her eyes on me, waiting.
I sat there for a full minute, enjoying her,
letting my thumbs meet at the bottom of her slit and moving them up
and down through the heat with a maddeningly gentle touch. Finally
I slid two fingers of my left hand into her and mashed her clit
beneath my right thumb. She closed her eyes in rapture (and a bit
of disappointment? ) and squeezed her tits together as I helped her
to her own shuddering release. When the last bits had been toweled
dry and we were snuggled under the blankets I held her close while
she drifted quickly off to her usual dead-to-the-world slumber. I
was still awake, hours later, when I got up to go to work.
Mondays are overrated. There's absolutely no
reason you can't be every bit as miserable at work on even a
Thursday if you put your mind to it, especially if your best friend
pitches in to help.
I had just opened the shop and was still
turning the little “We're Open!” sign over when Clary burst in,
stomped over to me and whipped her finger up to accuse my nose.
“What the HELL is WRONG with you?”
“My shoulder aches a bit when it rains, but
I never…”
Her finger never wavered. “I've known you
for 5 years, buddy boy, and I never DREAMED you would treat my
sister this way. I never dreamed you would treat ANY woman this
way!”
“Could you give me my copy of the script?
I'm not sure what the problem is.” I knew all right, I just wasn't
sure what she knew. Never admit to anything before you know what
the crime is. No sense getting arrested for murder when they're
just asking you about littering.
Mrs. Bentworth, a sweet silver-haired lady
and one of my regulars, came through the door holding her purse in
both hands and gave me a puzzled smile. Clary continued to glare at
me. “Why the HELL won't you go DOWN on your own WIFE? What, are you
afraid the BIG BAD PUSSY will GET you?” she yelled.
Never losing her smile, Mrs. Bentworth
performed a smart about-face and quickly made her way back
outside.
I backed away from the finger and sat down
on a stack of Tom Clancy books. “Can we talk about this some other
time?”
“NO! Give it up, Vince. The taste? The
SMELL? Some psychological BULLSHIT about performing a submissive
act and undermining your essential MASCULINITY? Because if that's
it then it's not working, cuz I've never noticed much masculinity
coming from your direction…”
Other customers were starting to come in,
either for books or the free entertainment. “Look, meet me for
lunch and we can talk then, all right? Nothing's going to change in
four hours.” She didn't respond right away, and then she nodded
once and left without another word. I breathed a sigh of relief and
regret before standing back up, straightening the stack and heading
behind the counter. An elderly gentleman stepped up.
Deep breath. “Can I help you, sir?” I
asked.
“So why won't you go down on her? You some
kinda fag?”