Nymphomaniac

Every man has fantasies. Excessive behaviour, particularly in the area of feminine sexuality, is appealing.

As I wandered the earth searching for the unobtainable I was presented with that of which every man dreams, a nymphomaniac.

Although by now I was making a decent job of trawling the net and throwing back the tiddlers and sharks finding a suitable creature to feast upon was presenting a challenge. I had decided I would develop a fondness for flesh of a different hue. Lithe and nubile and domicile on this planet for a little less than two score years particularly took my fancy.

A short break to a seaside town brought a variety of catch that was the most amazing dish imaginable. This platter did not need a side order to satisfy. On the dance floor she manipulated her torso into directions of travel that did not seem humanly possible. And she quite blatantly knew what she was doing. Putting herself on my menu was the biggest joy that I could hope for.

Before the moon had revolved we were an item. Hand in hand, cheek to cheek, body to body I made use of my surroundings. As I listened to the waves lapping at the shore my own form of lapping was received with relish. I found sand to be a very uncomfortable third companion when engaging in foreplay. And this lady was vocal, very, very vocal. She was the walking embodiment of gratitude.

Over the next six months I experienced that nightmares and dreams are not that far removed from each other. As desire gave way to a diet of insatiable lust I could, quite literally, not keep up. This lady loved it, everywhere, anywhere, including the room next door to her eighty year old profoundly undeaf mother. I am not one to be feint of heart but when screaming ardour and a family audience of well over pension age are mixed then a sanity check is in order.

I made my excuses and got out of there. Pity really she was a very fine woman.
The last I heard she was testing the lifecycle of batteries for a selection of plastic insertions.