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At some point each time, I am encouraged to lie back while he makes himself comfortable between my legs. He lubes his hands, then begins a leisurely massage of my vulva.
It starts slow, but I lack the patience to let things build gradually. I request — politely, if I can — to have his fingers in me, and he agreeably provides his own unique combination of finger fucking and clit rubbing which invariably gets me off hard.
He slows his strokes as I catch my breath; he teases me for my enthusiastic orgasmic thrashing. Then I ask for more, again and again and again, until I remember that I’m dealing with a man and not a fucking machine. “Are your hands getting tired?” I ask.
“Only a little,” he answers. “I’ve been working on my finger strength.”
I pop my head up. “Your finger strength? What do you mean?”
“For you,” he tells me. “I’ve been doing exercises to build up my forearm muscles. So that I can do this to you longer.” Clearly he is embarrassed in sharing this revelation, so I lie back down and let him provide another demonstration of his new-found strength.
This may be one of the sweetest declarations of adoration I’ve even been given. Sweeter than candy, or a ring, or the exchange of a letterman’s jacket, or theater tickets. Sweeter than flowers.
Wouldn’t you agree?




