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“Do you want to put it in my ass?”

I’ve heard women speak to me a million permutations of sexy invitations and romantic aches, but none hastened my heart, boiled my blood, and coagulated my cock like these nine words sailing over a smooth, prone shoulder and landing ear-ways with a sparrow’s chirp. I wish I could say otherwise; that it was some other, loftier, exclamation of desirous love that etched a permanent shelter in my neural storage locker. But I must stay true to the Chateau Heartiste mission statement and judge a woman’s sexy interlude not by the parched abstraction the superego demands, but by the ignited viscera that livens the id.


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