Making the President
The politics of seduction turned lovely Cynthia into one of the most successful diplomats ever to have graced a gilded boudoir, a canopied bed, a softly-purring limousine. Warm, witty and irresistible, she was born to win—and to enjoy to the full the juicy fruit of her victories!
Making the President
This page copyright © 2006 Olympia Press.
The politics of seduction turned lovely Cynthia into one of the most successful diplomats ever to have graced a gilded boudoir, a canopied bed, a softly-purring limousine.
Warm, witty and irresistible, she was born to win—and to enjoy to the full the juicy fruit of her victories!
My name is Cynthia. Would you believe it, the only time I've ever been called “Sin” was as a sort of chant while some guy was pumping his cock up my cunt? Even then I couldn't be sure it was me he was apostrophizing, and not the act. Mostly my full name seems all right to everyone, and I've always rather liked it myself, which I understand is unusual.
I've never understood why some men sustain a sweaty silence fucking while others feel obligated to verbalize. I've been told by a reputed expert that in the old days, when “fuck” was a naughty word, many guys saved it for that moment when it was literally happening, maybe in disbelief that they were actually doing it. Or maybe to inform the girl she wasn't exactly knitting sweaters, in case she was trying to pretend she was doing something natural and good. I suppose it could be a measure of a man's morality—what he says when he's fucking, or what he doesn't say. Some fellows say all the dirty words they can think of while they're getting ready to insert. I've been told it's because they're afraid they won't be able to keep a hard-on otherwise. Only a few do it because they think it gets the girl hotter. Those with no problems, they say, are generally silent.
I heard about one gung-ho Marine who used to beat up queers; but with long hair coming in, it got difficult to tell who was and who wasn't, with occasional dismal results, so he switched to beating up peaceniks, who are supposed not to fight back. What I'm getting at is this: I heard from a girl who once let that Marine fuck her that when he was up, up and away, he spit out the very worst word he knew. As he pumped his cock up her cunt he punctuated every thrust by screaming “Peace!” I wonder if mixed-up pacifists shout “War!”?
But this isn't getting my story told. Looking back at it, I can see that I was sex-oriented from the beginning, but since many analysts say everyone is (if only they'd admit it), I won't claim it is good or bad or unusual. It's good to know it, everyone agrees. I've seen pictures of myself as a naked baby (my parents, bless 'em, were no prudes), and even at six weeks I seemed to have a prominent vulva. Well, I never lost it. Though I've never been ashamed of it, I tend to wear skirted suits swimming, because I've found that it makes other people self-conscious, even more than enormous breasts, which I don't have. Thirty-seven inches, if you're curious, but that isn't considered enormous these days. I've never been breast-oriented, anyhow.
In addition to being prominent from the beginning, my cunt has also been unusually sensitive. I say “unusually” because for the ordinary woman, when the right man's fingers get probing around her cunt it's a nice thing, but just a casual, accidental brushing doesn't set her on fire. Which reminds me. When I was a ripe thirteen—I believe the technical term is “nubile", at least in the vocabulary of dirty old men—I had the pleasure of destroying a dirty young boys' tale (do old wives really go around making up things?), or perhaps, as long as I am being technical, I should spell it “tail", for it was tail I destroyed for an overly inflated boy. I should add that we were in our last year at one of those small-town schools where “sex education” was a dirty phrase, and rudimentary feminine hygiene was taught only after a battle between the board and a crusty old doctor who threatened otherwise to castrate (or spay, as the case might be) the recalcitrant members of the board, for they were all his patients. It still puzzles me that the board members considered the teaching of feminine hygiene to be at least un-American and probably Communist, for in our town you always said “dirty Communist”. Maybe they meant sex-dirty rather than soapless-dirty. But this was the only battle bur doctor felt capable of waging, for the boys were still taught that masturbation was the certain road to madness, though I doubt that a single boy believed it. Lacking any reliable sources of information, the boys tried educating themselves. There weren't yet that many girls in our set putting out that they could get practical experience.
The boy I'm speaking of (and I don't know how many others) believed it gospel that if you could get your thumb and forefinger on a girl's clitoris she'd become totally helpless, a raging sex maniac, and beg to be fucked. Apparently most of the boys were willing only to daydream about this rule of thumb, so to speak, this magic button; but Chet—our boy—elected himself a committee of one to seek the proof of the pudding. I'll say this for him: he was dexterous. He was walking me home from the library one evening (we'd met by chance, at least on my part): one moment his hands were full of his books and mine, the next his hand was inside my panties, my clit was firmly grasped between his thumb and forefinger, his left hand was unzipping his fly, apparently so I'd have the least possible time to suffer not having his cock fucking me. Actually, he was only half-unzipped when I got over the first shock and gave him a magnificent slap across the face. He pulled his right hand away from my crotch as though my clit had bit him, and he looked like a baby just robbed of its candy. “Didn't I do it right?” he asked, near tears. And when he told me what he'd expected I thought it was so funny I couldn't be mad at him any more. Which, as far as his pride was concerned, was far worse than being mad. I laughed and laughed.
“I guess you won't ever want to go out with me again,” he said when I had caught my breath.
“Not until you grow up,” I said.
So whenever I ran into him at school I'd give him a bright smile, which he obviously thought was a thousand times worse than cutting him. He always blushed. I don't know whether he ever shared his new knowledge with his friends. My guess is that he was too much of a coward to confess to his attempt and its failure.
But I bet I know how such an idea could get started. If a girl really loves a boy (and in another year I'd have this happen to me), even his slightest touch can make her melt, even if only the end of his finger touches the end of her finger. Every single part of her becomes erogenous. So maybe some cad of a boy, out with a girl infatuated with him, slipped thumb and forefinger on her clit, she flopped over on her back, he reported to his friends that this was the way to reduce any girl to a quivering mass of fuckable cunt, and it spread around the nation, as such things have a tendency to do. As far as Chet was concerned, I've always wondered if I'd have let him deflower me if he'd approached me more subtly. I'll never know for sure, but sometimes I think I was sufficiently curious that I'd have let him.
But I'm getting ahead of my story. To get back to my own sexuality, or rather my prominent cunt: even as a little girl I discovered that I felt funny all over if the bump between my legs rubbed against anything. One of my first memories is of wondering what boys had between their legs, and I wasted no time finding out. My folks had bought a house in a development where a lot of young couples lived; there were kids everywhere, and we wandered in and out of each other's houses, so it was no problem at all to find a young mother changing the diaper on a baby boy.
The first time I saw one I stared and stared. The young mother was amused. She told my mother how fascinated I had been, so at age five I was told, gently but specifically, what the difference between boys and girls was. I was also told that my curiosity was a healthy thing, but that I was not to flaunt my new knowledge, because there were many parents who thought that sex was a shameful thing, and would resent anyone telling their children what they ought to know.
Up to that point sitting on my daddy's lap had been one of my greatest joys, for I had found that by squirming around a lot I could rub my bulge against a soft bulge he seemed to have, which was much nicer than rubbing it against anything else. I remember once that his soft bulge became hard: he laughed and lifted me off his lap and onto the floor and gave me a gentle pat on the fanny. After my mother told me about what the difference between boys and girls was really for, I couldn't pretend innocence sitting on my daddy's lap, for even at that age I had already been infected by the taboo against incest, and it was no longer a natural and pleasant thing to feel my daddy's bulge rubbing against mine. He must have been aware of what I had been doing, and had probably wondered what to do about it without giving me any complexes. I'm sure he was relieved when I stopped doing it. I always loved him dearly—I loved both my parents dearly—he was a very handsome man, and I know a lot of women threw themselves at him, but never after age five was there anything sexual in my love for my daddy.
What I am trying to get across is the fact that in spite of an unusually prominent and sensitive cunt, I was a normal, healthy girl with few complexes. One of the reasons was that my parents were so natural about sex. They were a well-matched pair, it was obvious that they loved each other in every possible way, and there were no frustrations to take out on me. My only complaint was that they failed to provide me with brothers and sisters, but this was a minor one, for as I said, we lived in a development where there were scores of kids my own age, so I had no lack of playmates.
Only last year my mother told me why I was the only child. When she was three months pregnant with me, her doctor told her that she and my father would have to quit fucking because she was prone to miscarriage. So they had to lay off for nearly six months, and when finally I was born they agreed to have no more children, but soothed their consciences by promising themselves I would never lack for playmates. In their position, I'd have made exactly the same decision. My parents are in their fifties now, as attractive as ever. Naively, I asked my mother recently at what age their sex life began to taper off. Her eyes sparkled with the laughter she fought to hold back. “It gets better all the time,” she whispered, then she blushed. She knew they were one couple in a million, and how lucky they were.
So I grew up a completely normal girl, a little on the sensual side. Want to hear a real shocker? For all my rampant sensuality, I remained a virgin not only through four years of high school, but through four years of college as well. And I didn't have a frustrated moment!
The development we lived in didn't have its own high school, so at age fourteen, along with my friends from toddlerhood, I was bussed to a big high school six miles from home. Good old Chet went to a Catholic high school, so he no longer had to endure my amused smiles.
My very first day at school I met Bob Landers and fell madly in love once and for all. He says he fell in love with me that same day, but I think he's stretching the truth. He was also fourteen, he'd skipped the awkward adolescent period many boys suffer through, and was a golden boy in every way. He was so beautiful it made your mouth water. He was so beautiful he drove me to the first desperate act of my life—but not the last. I dropped all my books in front of him. He seemed startled, another boy rushed to pick them up, but fortunately Bob recovered quickly, gave the other boy a deft block with his slim hips, picked up my books himself, then said since I was so butterfingered he'd better carry them for me.
With my parents' full approval we began going steady at fourteen. Once, a couple of months after we'd begun to go steady, I overheard a friend of my mother's, who had a daughter my age, asking if fourteen wasn't a little young to go steady. “Boys like Bob don't grow on trees,” I heard my mother say.
“Nor girls like Cynthia,” the woman's husband added.
“They're obviously so much in love,” said the woman. “Aren't you afraid they'll... go too far?”
“They'll do what is right,” my mother said.
“But what is right?” asked her friend. My mother only smiled mysteriously.
I knew for a fact that even at fourteen some of my acquaintances were letting boys fuck them. With some it was only one particular boy, with others it was any boy who asked nicely. It would be wrong to say I didn't love every inch of Bob's handsome body, but we didn't feel the urgency many couples felt, because right from the beginning we knew we were going to get married sooner or later, and that when we finally fucked, it was going to be only because conditions were exactly right. We loved kissing and hugging. When we necked it was heavenly, but we never felt frustrated not going all the way. We were not modest in each other's presence. We had discovered a secret little stream not far from the development, and we used to go swimming there, stripping with no trace of self-consciousness. The first time we did this I stared in awe at Bob's genitals, which were as beautiful as the rest of him. For the first time I felt a positive urge to feel them, to kiss them, to see his beautiful cock erect; but I wasn't so filled with the wonder of it that I failed to notice his eyes lighting up at the sight of my protruding cunt, of which I'd never felt more proud. But only our hands touched, we went hand-in-hand to the stream, and waded happily in. As we began splashing each other I forgot my flash of lust, and it never returned the other times we stripped to swim. But some nights I found myself slowly, passionately masturbating to the vision of Bob's beautiful body—all of it, not just his genitals.
We entered Cornell together, with the understanding that we would get married when we graduated, whether Bob decided to go on to graduate school or not. We knew our families would not have objected if we had gotten married and shared an apartment all during college, but it was our choice to wait until we graduated.
We were the quintessential campus sweethearts. When we were together we were constantly touching each other, and I'm sure everyone assumed we were fucking incessantly. Bob seemed to grow even handsomer, even sexier every year, and every year I fell more deeply in love with him. At one faculty party I overheard an athletic director talking to a young English instructor about us. “I'd give a million dollars to see a movie of them fucking,” he said. “What a beautiful sight that would be!”
“I'll put up half of that,” said the young English instructor.
We were married in the chapel on graduation day. But I was no longer a virgin. Two days before graduation I had lost my virginity—and not to Bob. Curiously, I had felt no shame as a stranger's cock thrust through my hymen. Even afterwards I didn't feel the traditional shame, though it was clear that my seducer did. I put it out of my mind and came to Bob in the chapel with only overflowing love. If I had learned anything from it, it was that I was very much a sexual animal. I marveled that I had been so much in love with Bob that not until that moment had the animal in me risen to the top. But since Bob and I would now be together constantly, night as well as day, I soothed my conscience with the belief that never again would my body be in a position to betray me to another man.
Bob's parents had a cottage on a lake, and that is where we went for our honeymoon. We had dinner en route and arrived early in the evening. It was only dusk, but we stripped off our clothes and tumbled into bed. When finally I felt Bob's naked body against mine it was the most thrilling moment of my life, and seemed to erase once and for all that moment's madness of two nights before. But as we kissed and probed I became aware that Bob was not getting the erection that would enable us to become man and wife physically as well as legally and spiritually. Then suddenly I knew that during the eight years we had been in love we had come to know each other so well that Bob sensed I had betrayed him. If he didn't know it consciously, his unconscious was well aware of it and kept his cock from possessing me.
But I wasn't ready to give up. I clung desperately to him, rubbed my protruding cunt hard against his soft cock, pulled him atop me, wrapped my legs around him, but to no avail. Finally he pulled away from me. “It's no use,” he moaned.
“Oh God, why did I do it, why did I do it?” I sobbed.
“You guessed, didn't you? About me and Tony?”
“You and Tony?” he asked. Tony Varick was his roommate, our best man.
“It was my fault as much as his,” I said. “I knew he'd had too much to drink. But once we got started...”
“I betrayed you!” I sobbed. “I'm no good for you. I thought I could put it out of my mind, that it wouldn't make any difference. But somehow you were able to sense it...”
“Tony and I... I let him... fuck me.”
“You and Tony!”
“Yes. I could say I couldn't help it, but it isn't true. We got started, and when we did, I didn't want to stop....”
“You and Tony! You let him... fuck you?”
“Yes!” I sobbed. “I'm no good for you! I betrayed you!”
“You and Tony!” With a fierce cry, nearly a scream that seemed as much passion as rage, he seized me, threw me back down on the bed, thrust his rock-hard cock into my cunt, and with no subtlety at all he fucked me. Even with all my anguish I was lifted to heaven as his cock, enormous in erection, pounded relentlessly into my cunt, and I lifted my ass with each great stroke. When Tony had fucked me it had felt wonderful, I admitted with shame, but it was nothing like the ecstasy that possessed me as this golden youth drove himself into my body with such dedicated fury. I had one climax after another as he pounded on to his huge orgasm.
When he came I could feel the explosions acutely, deep down in my cunt, and I had the most enormous climax of all at that moment. When he was done I could feel his cock diminish inside me, but to my relief, he didn't pull it out. I kept my legs locked around his back and could feel his balls settling gently against my asshole.
“My love, my sweet love,” he moaned.
“You forgive me?” I begged.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “It wasn't your fault. I know Tony. He forced you.”
“We won't ever speak of it again,” I said. “It will be as if it never happened. We'll live from this moment on.”
“Yes,” he murmured.
We fell asleep, even in this awkward position, his limp cock still in my cunt, our bodies locked together. I awoke during the night, acutely aware of the wiry curls of his pubic hair against my clitoris. It quickly erected; I slowly, subtly moved my hips and was able to masturbate this way without awakening him. For all the motion, his cock didn't get hard.
In the morning we awoke still in each other's arms. Bob raised up and slowly pulled his cock out of my cunt. I hated to feel it go. I began rubbing against him. He locked his arms around me and we kissed passionately. He pushed his tongue into my open mouth and we rubbed our tongues together, exploring every part of each other's mouths, and my nipples erected against his chest. I rubbed my mons veneris hard against his crotch, against the wiry pubic hair, and had still another climax this way.
Suddenly he pulled away from me. It's no use,” he said. “I'm no good to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don't know what's wrong,” he said. “I want you so much.”
“Is it because I let Tony fuck me?” I asked. With this I looked down and saw his cock was beginning to engorge. He was looking at it himself. But after a moment it became limp again. He looked up at me, a funny look in his eyes.
“Tell me about Tony,” he said.
“We promised we'd forget about it!”
“Tell me,” he said implacably.
“If I tell you, will you promise we can forget about it?”
“Yes,” he said. “But you must tell me everything.”
For the first time I felt real despair at how total my betrayal of Bob had been when I thoughtlessly yielded to Tony. “Tell me everything,” Bob repeated.
“You were having your job interview with the man from Arbor Conglomerates,” I said, “and you asked Tony to drive me home.”
“He'd been drinking, but he promised to drive carefully.”
“But he didn't drive me straight back to the dormitory. When we reached Englewood Lane he turned down it, and he parked at that secluded grove. You remember the one?”
“I asked Tony, 'Why are we doing this?' 'I want to see what my roomie's getting,' he said, and I realized he was drunker than we'd thought.”
“He insisted he'd only had a couple.”
“Before I knew what was happening, he had his hand up my skirt and he was... feeling me.”
“Like this,” I said. I took Bob's hand and placed it on my mons veneris, took his index finger and rubbed it against my clit.
“He did this?” Bob said, and left his hand there, with his index finger continuing to stroke my clit. It was hard to keep from writhing, exactly as it had been hard to keep from writhing when Tony did it. I looked down and saw that Bob's cock had begun to rise. He saw me looking, looked down, and it became limp again.
“Then what did he do?” Bob asked.
“I know I should have pushed his hand away, but somehow I couldn't, and when he reached with his other hand to pull my panties down, I found myself raising my hips. So he pulled them down, then he began rubbing his hand hard against my cunt, pushing his fingers in.”
“Like this?” Bob asked, and rubbed his hand against my cunt, pushing the fingers in. I moaned and my hips began writhing. I felt pretty far gone, as I had felt when Tony was doing it, but out of the corner of my eye I could see Bob had erected fully. I hoped he'd cut out the nonsense and fuck me, but he insisted I keep on with my story. So I told him how with one hand still probing my cunt, Tony pulled his pants down with his other hand. He didn't have any shorts on, his cock sprung out fully erect. I knew at that moment I was going to let him fuck me, and I think he knew I was going to let him. He called it droit de roommate.
“How big was his cock?” Bob asked.
“Almost as big as yours,” I admitted.
“When you saw it, did you want him to fuck you with it?” Bob asked.
I sighed. “Yes,” I admitted. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Bob's beautiful hard cock throbbing and throbbing. I knew I'd go crazy if he didn't fuck me with it very soon.
“What did Tony do next?” Bob asked implacably.
“He took hold of his cock with one hand, held the lips of my cunt open with the other, and began rubbing the head of his cock against my inner lips.”
“Like this?” Bob asked. With one hand he opened the outer lips of my cunt and rubbed the glistening head of his rigid cock hard against the inner lips. I could feel the moisture gathering. I pushed with my hips to get his cock inside me, but he held it away, wouldn't let it go in. “Then what?” he demanded.
Actually, Tony had detoured to my breasts, which he had gotten out meanwhile. With one hand probing my cunt he began sucking on my nipples, erecting them. It felt good, but not nearly as good as his hand on my cunt, and I thought I'd go crazy if he didn't stick his cock in soon. “Tony kept rubbing the head of his cock against my cunt,” I lied, “especially against my clitoris.”
“Yes, oh yes!” I cried. Bob rubbed his cock hard against my cunt, especially against the clitoris, and with a cry and a shudder I had a climax.
“Did you have a climax when Tony did it?” he asked.
“Yes, oh yes,” I said. “But he kept on going.”
“Oh yes, yes, yes!” I cried. “Then I got on top of him like this, and I pushed, and his cock went all the way into my cunt.”
“It was the first time?”
“The first time.”
“Didn't it hurt?”
“Only a little, and only for a second.”
“Does this hurt?” And he pulled me around till I was on top of him. I thrust down hard and took his cock all the way up my cunt.
“Only a little,” I lied, for already I sensed he wanted it to be as much like Tony's fuck as possible; actually it was sheer heaven feeling Bob's cock sliding up my cunt all the way, till I was sitting on his big hard balls. “Then he grabbed me hard, he rolled me over, and he began fucking me,” I said.
“Like this?” Bob asked. He rolled me over and began fucking me hard. I didn't know how much to respond, whether to try to pretend indifference to suggest it had not been such a great thing when Tony fucked me. Actually when Tony did it I had let myself go and slammed my crotch into his with every stroke, coming three or four times before he came once, so passionate that I alarmed him. When he was done he had looked down with astonishment at the small pool of blood on the leather seat of the car.
“It was the first time for you!” he had gasped.
“Of course!” I had said.
“Even so, you fuck like a demon,” he had said.
And I fucked even more like a demon with Bob pounding his cock into me. I no longer cared whether he thought I was imitating the fuck with Tony or doing it just for him. My mind lost all control, it was my body that was responding to the joy, the boundless pleasure of my dearest love fucking me, and I let myself go. “Make it last, make it last!” I begged.
“Did Tony make it last?” he asked.
“On and on,” I lied, though actually it was over in perhaps half a minute, for all my several climaxes. So Bob pounded on and on, with as much control as he could manage, and each climax I had seemed twice as fantastic as the one before, until I knew I couldn't stand any more. “Now, now!” I begged. “Come like Tony came!”
Bob came, but it was a thousand times the explosion Tony's had been. I had barely felt Tony's orgasm, but Bob's produced the most earth-shaking climax of my life, and when we were done my heart was pounding so much I wondered I hadn't had a heart attack.
Soon we fell asleep again, Bob's cock locked inside me, and we didn't wake up for another hour. Bob was the first awake, and he woke me with a gentle kiss. “Oh, I love you so much,” he whispered.
“And you forgive me?” I begged.
“I forgive you,” he whispered.
We had a wonderfully happy day, sailing on the lake, cooking steaks on the outdoor fireplace, taking our ease. Every once in a while Bob would pause and look at me. “My beautiful wife!” he would say.
“My husband, my wonderful, masterful husband,” I would say. And what pleasure it gave me to say it and be able to mean it!
Knowing we had a whole lifetime ahead of us we did not hurry to bed that night. We watched a comedy program on television, then stripped and climbed naked into bed. But once more Bob was unable to get an erection. We tried and tried for half an hour. “Tell me about Tony fucking you again,” Bob said in despair.
I started the story again, but it did not seem to arouse Bob, until I decided not to skip over the part where Tony had sucked on my nipples. When I told Bob this he began sucking on my nipples, he got an erection, and he didn't wait for me to finish the story. He climbed on me and fucked me, but it was no longer the total dedication to passion, for now there was a note of despair to it.
In the morning we did not even try to fuck, we did not discuss it. During the day I sensed a new sadness in Bob. I kept calling him husband, telling him how much I loved him, but got only sad smiles in response.
That night, when we got into bed, we kissed passionately, but no erection. “Tell me about old Tony again,” Bob said. I tried to, and I added a few details I had not mentioned before, but it didn't work. I told Bob I loved him so much it was enough just to lie in his arms, but I could see it wasn't going to work. Each night of our honeymoon we fell asleep in each other's arms, and we did not try to fuck. I made no attempt to arouse Bob, because I knew the failure would leave him more depressed than before.
I think we were both relieved when our honeymoon was over and we could go to N.Y.C., where Bob could take up his post as an executive trainee with Arbor Conglomerates.
Thanks to a friend at Cornell whose father was in real estate in New York City we found a spacious, inexpensive, rent-controlled apartment near Lincoln Center. With Bob starting on his job, with the work of shopping to furnish the apartment, we were so exhausted at night we hardly had time to worry about sex. If it hadn't been for those two searing first fucks we had, I might have been quite content with the intense affection of merely sleeping non-sexually in my husband's strong arms; but I was haunted by what fucking could be between us, and though Bob never spoke of it, I knew he was haunted too. If at fourteen I'd had even an inkling of what it could be like, I know I'd have lost my virginity to Bob as fast as possible. Then perhaps we'd have avoided the damage that our withholding seemed to have done to this beautiful man.
Secretly, without telling Bob, I visited a marriage counselor about our problem. That we'd been able to fuck so spectacularly proved that the problem wasn't physiological, the counselor said, so it must be entirely psychological. That Bob could only fuck when he pretended he was his roommate, Tony, who had fucked me, showed that he had a tremendous feeling of sexual inferiority. He had no reason to feel that, I told the counselor, for though Tony had a reputation as one of the greatest cocksmen Cornell had ever known, having Bob fuck me was a thousand times more thrilling than having Tony do it. Perhaps, said the counselor, what Bob needed was erotic stimulation, and he sent me to a bookshop with a special letter to the owner, which got me from under the counter some fantastic pornographic novels. The best of these was mimeographed, not printed; an underground classic from the twenties, about a boy with a twelve-inch cock. (Now, of course, it has been published and is readily available.)
I persuaded Bob that we should read them together. Nothing. In fact, worse than nothing, for he read into my attempt to stimulate him a despair at the fact that we weren't fucking, and he grew morose. “I will give you a divorce, though I love you,” he said. “I cannot ask a girl as beautiful and desirable and sex-oriented as you are to stick with me, no matter how much I love you.”
“But sleeping in your arms, even without sex, is a thousand times better, more thrilling for me than letting Tony, or anyone, fuck me!” I protested.
“You'll grow to hate me. I'd rather you left me while you still had some feeling for me.”
“I love you!” I cried. “I've loved you for eight years now, and I'll love you forever.”
“You loved me thinking me a complete man.”
“We'll find something,” I said. “Trust me.”
“Will you be happy without children?”
“I want you, you,” I cried. “If I wanted children, we could have them easily. By artificial insemination. It's done all the time. You'd still be the father, I'd be the mother, they'd be our children. But right now it's you I want.”
“And it's me you're not getting,” he said sadly.
“Sex is only a small part of love,” I insisted. “Besides, women don't need it as much as men.”
“That's a lie,” he said. “I've checked. And I've seen how you were those times. It was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me, and I'd die if I thought it could never happen to you again.”
“Can't we let it rest?” I begged. “Let's promise not to speak of it for a...
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