foreplay

It's quite unfair to say that men don't savor foreplay; good foreplay is both playful and intimate, as sex should be, and intercourse truly ought only to be the culmination of sex, not the entirety of it.

Foreplay is more intimate than cuddling, snuggling and tickling, but can follow naturally from these activities.

"It starts around 7 or 8 pm, in the intimate little eaterie you booked earlier. Good food, some wine, perhaps some champagne.
Next, onto a club, some dancing and maybe some more drink. An by dancing I mean YOU dance with ME. It does not mean take me out to a club and stand at the bar getting too drunk to walk whilst leering at every other woman in the place.
After that it's back to either your place or mine, if you're lucky, where you can ply me with some more drink, some good music and then, after a while, I just might let you start what you consider to be foreplay.
Oh, and LEARN TO KISS"

I...really like foreplay.

It's like body poetry. Free verse. None of that rhythmic, rhyming, sex bullshit, but sheer creative free form.

Who cares about positions? There's no art in memorizing the kama sutra, no sir.

Let your fingers do the walking.

It's a time for toys.

A more prideful man might liken her to an instrument beneath his fingers, but this is a time for sharing, and instruments are a one way proposition.

She's my love, my joy, the object of my effort, the reason for my expression. Our sharing, our desire, becomes the utmost of our expression, and our willingness to restrict (hah!) this to mere touch

Rather than the ever present standby

Is yet one more intimation...

I will wait for you. You are worth the time, the trouble,

The blue Bawls

That I must suffer. *grin*

For your pleasure is mine, your smile my glory, your cries my expression. Thank you so much for allowing me this dalliance, this friendship, this depth.

Dictionary of Sexology Project: Main Index

God, I miss the taste of your mouth. I miss the way your skin ripples beneath my hand, the way I can feel you pulse as my tongue taunts you. I miss the way you tease me, hurt me just a little because you know I like it. It's been too long, long enough that I'm starting to wonder if it was a dream. Did we really feel that good, grinding hard against one another, tangled in your bed? Unschooled as you might have been, you managed to break me. I lost control in your hands, something that never happens.

Did your hands really work that fucking magic on my body? I'm sure they must have. I haven't been quite the same since that night. What elegant hands you have, and how skillful. They played my body like a violin, plucking, stroking, drawing out sighs and moans from a place previously untouched. I felt them everywhere at once, too much and never quite enough. Your mouth followed behind, settling my hot skin, then feeding an urgency you never satisfied. You offered a finish, and a grand one, but I wanted more. I wanted to feel you pounding into me. I wanted, still want, you to own me completely.

Just thinking about it, I feel my body flushing, and a warmth spreads, little currents of lust. My nipples tighten, and that heat continues to spread as my breathing quickens. You damned tease. Hours of passion, you showed me a million things I never thought I'd feel, then you retreat to a platonic plain. Asshole. Like I don't notice that light in your eyes, that scratch in your voice. Like I can't tell when we are remembering the same thing.

One day, I'll call you on that. I want you to finish what you started. Actually, I want you to start it over, so I can savor every lick and touch again. I want you to devour me. Fuck me, shatter me. If I can't forget what you've done to me, at least give me something good to remember.