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Minx, Twitter Story
https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531462995499843584 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531463468302745600 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531464214012235776 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531464603679866882 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531464938968334336 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531465381362540545 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531465711118712832 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531466185062490112 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531466514403442688 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531467366782476288 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531467737827409920 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531468140941950976 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531468471834787840 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531468773275226112 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531472292845727744 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531472652184338433 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531473094947651585 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531473387693301760 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531473834202128384 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531474401469165568 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531474822015225856 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531475292263809025 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531475604940808192 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531476152259727360 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531476617424818176 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531476953237569537 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531477314434248704 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531477644035235841 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531477810746232833 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531478581927747585 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531479385363464193 https://twitter.com/Swaggattraktion/status/531479975946616833 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531480222986932224 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531480545289859072 https://twitter.com/Swaggattraktion/status/531480649925132288 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531481382254809088 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531481732399505408 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531482161543925762 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531482623399698432 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531483149940060160 https://twitter.com/SiriZetu/status/531483559778082816
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I think it’s time we dropped this charade. It’s getting older than Moi’s nose hairs and it may earn us men some much needed respite. We have been accused, we have plead not guilty on numerous accounts but have been convicted none the less, even when the charges belonged to the next man. I’d like to throw myself at the mercy of the court when I admit that, all men are dogs. Yes. All of us. Filthy, horny, dogs. We couldn’t keep it in our pants even if it meant World Peace (which it probably does :-/). From your Dad to that silent guy who is always hunched over his computer at work (someone should look into that guy, I think he’s watching porn). We are dogs. Come on ladies, the writing was on the wall, we even gave you a little hint. A dog is man’s best friend. Who said, “Show me your friends and I’ll tell you who you are”? He was talking about man and his doggy mate. Why choose to be a dog? You may ask, well, it’s because we can. Simple. There’s not a more selfish, insensitive and callous animal than the male of the human species. We were not created with a caring bone in our bodies. Caring was just implied in the Creator of the Universe manual. Females on the other hand are blessed with being able to bring forth life, hence are natural care-givers. Save us the guilt trip, those are the sort of characteristics necessary for us to be hunters and conquerors, so that the family could eat and we could have dominion over nature, just as the good Lord intended. If we cared about monogamy and the sanctity of life and all of that ethical crap, the human species would have died out ages ago. This also comes with some baggage, as most men, by default, don’t give a shit about female emotions. Only what they harbor in between their thighs. It’s all a game of who can pierce the most pussies in a single lifetime. A game most men are more than willing to take part in. Other men are less than enthusiastic about our hunger games, because society decided to create morals. Now its frowned upon if I shag 10 girls while having someone at home. I forgot to tell them about her! You try declaring your marital status to her while she’s all wrapped up around you, moving under you, when you’re completely taken by thick thighs with tears in your eyes (this shit even rhymes, that’s how right it is!) That girl will turn into a raging bull so fast!!! If you manage to hold on and keep your dick inside her during the bucking, it’ll be the fuck of your life!!! Better be worth it though, because she will find your wife. Divorce, ostracism, half your wealth gone… Woe unto you if you get caught cleaning the maid’s pipes! Hitler never died people, he just lived on in form of this nonsense. Now, since I feel for all you dogs out there, I did some research and some baking and found a way for you to have your cake and eat it too. Want to be a dog and still keep the wifey around? ‘;o Well, beat her with the same stick she beats you with. I mean fuck her into submission. Yes, there’s such a thing. This theory brings a whole new meaning to the phrase “fuck her brains out”. Scientists contend that an extraordinarily intense orgasm can cause temporary memory loss. Anything that powerful can always come to your aid because even if the memory loss is temporary, the effects are permanent. How many women have you ever heard confess that they want to leave their philandering men but can’t because, and I quote, “The D is too damn good”? It’s what shackles them to the relationship. When they say good D, they mean toes curling, blindness causing, failure of motor functions inducing, mother’s maiden name calling good D. The type she has to ask which year it is afterwards. The type that leaves her muttering nothingness into the pillowcase, twitching. Never underestimate the power of good Dick. Since you’re in trouble for doing the same to other innocent victims, you might as well pick up the experience from your away games to please the home crowd. I won’t stand here and preach that this is the miracle cheat for all you horny bastards, but it’s damn sure going to create some breathing space for you. You just need her to have a reason to hold on to your sorry ass. Plus treat her like a queen. Even if she thinks you’re cheating, the ethereal sex and a dozen of roses you sent to her mother, will confuse the fuck out of her. And even before the jury reaches a verdict of whether or not you’re guilty in the matter of the state vs your libido, their minds have already been swayed by how many times you made them all cum. And that gentlemen, is how you get away with murder, I rest my case.
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Do not eat when you’re hungry because you’ll end up eating junk. My mum keeps telling me that. For a really long time I thought it was torture. One of those things thin girls and thin girl wannabes do to themselves that never really make a difference. I hate being hungry. So why would I stay hungry to avoid junk food, which tastes really good in normal circumstances, but reaches incredibly unusual levels of absolute deliciousness when you’re starving? Huh? Nah, that’s for the skinny and the skinny at heart. I’m neither. So what changed my mind? Well, extrapolation of that principle to fit other areas of my life. There’s too many hungers in this life and too much delicious junk waiting to be consumed. Nowhere is this more apparent than in sexual hunger. The junk available to fulfill your every sexual need is ridiculous in its abundance. What? You don’t believe me? Why? Your dryspell says I’m wrong? Fair point. You’re wrong though. There’s years where your sex life is crazy! The rainy season if you may. Where all sorts of good, wholesome, genetically blessed – in both brains and beauty, people want to have sex with you. You’re usually already in a stable relationship, having your fill of some delicious pilau dick/pussy daily, to your fill. Pilau is a balanced meal in one. Starch, protein, vitamins and roughage come together in a beautiful combination with some spice added on to forever entice your taste buds. Your pilau mate is well balanced, perfect for you in every way. If they weren’t you’d never have commited to this one meal. You’d probably be doing that ugali/nyama/kachumbari combi that’s the perfect recipe for sexual gout (read: STDs). Multiple sexual partners isn’t your cup of tea anymore. The hitch comes in when you can’t taste the spice in your pilau anymore. It becomes boring. You ask around and ypu’re told to add some chilli to your pilau. That’s not interesting enough though. Not when there’s so many other good foods. You’re a consumer of means and your acceptance of commitment to one meal is attractive to other nutritious foods out there. It’s your rainy season after all! Hapa na pale you find yourself indulging in some nduma dick or ngwaci pussy, that nice girl from your office you’ve been flirting with or a fling with your boss on a weekend out of towner. It’s all good though, they’re all healthy alternatives to your pilau. Then it’s the burgers and pizzas of the sex world, celebrity booty, met them at a fundraiser or something, they were too gorgeous to pass up. Pilau will definitely understand that it was a BOGOF weekend, of celebs fucking down the social ladder. Some sausage choma, chapati madondo, roast maize, mutura, boiled eggs and rave smokies later you find you’ve downgraded to rachet foods. It’s all good, yeah…still got healthy pilau at home. You’re not all bad. One time though you realize, it’s too expensive to maintain classy pilau and keep your ratchet diet going. No time or money for both. You’re single now. All you’ve got is all that rachet junk food to fill you up. Beautiful, bountiful, why should you ever be tied down. All the food of the world is yours to have now. For how long? Who cares?! Your bad eating habits mean that you have no more access to all the good food of your rainy season. They don’t want your dried up cheating ass now. All you’ve got is that chips/sausage funga to tide you over day by day. Your body can’t take it though. Not for long. In a little while, without the roughage and vitamins you’re bloated, constipated and constantly fatigued. You need to stop. No more junk for you. Hearken the dryspell. Your famine is nigh. No more junk for you and the organic whole foods section is no longer available for you to select from. All you’ve got is rachets and they’re ruining your sex life! You can’t even cum anymore! You’re hungry for some release. You want some food. You need some! Badly. Your desperation is visible, like a green disgusting aura that surrounds you. You stink of it! Desperation makes you look like this (pic of gang green gang) to anyone you approach. They’re all asking one thing, why is he/she so hungry? What’s so wrong with this person that they have no one? Why doesn’t anyone want this person. You know they’re all thinking it. Or you tell yourself that they are, and this only makes you more desperate. This cycle of hunger, desperation and rejection is what I call: Dryspell Mania. You want someone good to settle down with and you want them NOW! Too bad, no one wants you back. This is the perfect time to go all Buddhist Monk and stop eating. If you don’t, you’ll end up wifing/ hubbying (??) rachets because of your fear of being alone. So be alone. Stop eating. Even when the hunger is so great you’re pawing at your genitals so hard you’re practically married to your hand, just wait it out. Wait until that point where you don’t even need to self defile to get through a day. Wait until you don’t drool every time you see the naked pizza that is Meagan Good’s nudes (those boooobs!!!). Stay hungry until you’re not hungry anymore. Take a lesson from Wiz and Kanye. We all agree that those females are fine AF but even Ares accepted Aphrodite’s rachetness. You cannot be a goddess and faithful. It is against the universal code. Divorce and heartbreak is what awaits when you eat at your hungriest. It’s the obesity of the relationship world. It’s what you get when you’re so desperate for love you go around falling for strippers.
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I’ve done the dirty to all sorts of music. Ragga, dancehall, rock, death metal (got chocked that time), house, dubstep and one very weird time, Beethoven. I’ve never liked this music and most of the time I didn’t insist on silence because I understood it needed to be loud – to drown out the grunting, hawing and heaving of my partner (I don’t moan, when I do I’m faking it, sorry all my exes :-/) I like quiet sex. Then I don’t have to spend 10 minutes of coiting trying to ignore Konshens telling me to bubble and concentrate on the pulsing of my magic button. Only once did I like the music played during and that resulted, quite honestly in some of the best sex I’ve ever had. His name is irrelevant but I named his D, ‘the one that got away’. You’ll see why in a bit. We met when I decided to turn up for my cousin’s birthday. I showed up at Buffet Park as they were watching the UEFA cup finals and first thing I said to her is, I hope you brought dudes because I need to get fucked tonight. She laughed and laughed until she realized I was serious and showed me who to keep my hands off. Everyone else was fair game. I picked one guy, dark, skinny, short. Just my type. A few minutes of very interesting conversation and he was relegated to the ‘too funny’ category. Everybody knows that funny guys have small dicks. No? Well…I wasn’t there to get the short end of the stick. I stuck to Mr. Funny guy though, he’d be my entertainment for the night. Penalty shoot out, Drogba scores. Chelsea wins, game over. Off to Psy’s LA where we proceeded to dance the night away. I met him there. He was part of our group, a friend if my cousin’s boyfriend. I’d ignored him because despite being short, he was wide and light skinned. Not my type. I wasn’t his either but after we’d both surveyed the area and abandoned all hope for finding prospects that met our sex mate standards, we mutually lowered the bar and deviated towards each other. A little dancing, a few black ices and lots of embarrassing motorboating pictures of him and I (delete those pictures cuz!) later, we left the club and headed straight to his place. He took a shower, we smoked a joint then we got down and dirty. That’s when things got interesting! First this one had the biggest D I’d ever seen and… and… and then he put on Sauti Sol!!! Whaaat! Drunk, stoned and horny I was in pussy heaven! Forget moaning, I sang along to everything!!! Missionary, Lazizi. Legs on his shoulders, Row Your Boat. Doggie, ah that doggie…Awinja ‘Ah! Ah! Ah!’, Bowane Lelisu eeh ‘Eh! Eh!’, Coming…comin…cumming Home. It was beautiful. *wipes tear* We blacked out and I woke up with the most beautiful feeling. I started plotting on how to get a repeat performance out of this sausage funga. Unfortunately, despite all my machinations he was adamant. No repeats, no surrender. I fear in all my singing I’d failed to impress this beautiful dick man and now he did not want to put his penis meat inside me anymore. I learned two lessons from that encounter: 1. To stop laughing at couples that jiggy to love songs from the 80’s. Those songs just get a girl in the mood. In all my cynicism against love, I’d failed miserably to grasp this point during my sex education. 2. The more you do to impress the person under you the less likely they are to reciprocate during that first encounter. If I wasn’t as awestruck as I was that time I probably would have killed it and he’d still be begging for some of this. Well, I probably will never get to taste his sweet D-elights ever again (punished him by never returning his favorite hoodie *evil grin*) but Sauti Sol are still here for me. Never disappointing. They even heeded my unspoken dream of a fap song. Video, lyrics and rhythm perfect for my yellow pages moonwalk within my mother’s union undies. Who needs a man when you’ve got Sauti Sol and sturdy fingers?    
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Most men didn’t know what they were doing in between her legs, or, she figured, didn’t care if they did. Some tried to impress her. Those with egos bigger than their cars. She didn’t care though. The only feeling she sought from the sex she had, was the feeling of  money on her palm after the deed was done. She wasn’t after comfort, it was hard to be comfortable when you bent over the hood of a car, while a stranger rode you from behind, grunting with every thrust. She wasn’t after satisfaction, how could you be satisfied when half the men you had sex with, came after a few seconds and the other half got you to the edge of the precipice, only to lack the strength to push you over? It didn’t matter. Money was all the comfort and satisfaction she needed. After all, this was her life, the life of a Nairobi Whore. Susan had wanted more from life. She knew sucking married men’s cocks in their cars as their wedding bands shone in the moonlight, wasn’t all there was to life. She loved Fashion and had enrolled in a Tailoring College. One day she’d be the Kenyan Chanel, didn’t Coco fuck rich men before she found her fortune? Fees didn’t come cheap though and living in Nairobi was no picnic either. Hence she did what the other girls at the college did for money, pussy for pesa. Sometimes one of the girls would find a Captain-Save-a-Hoe and leave the night work. It was the prostitution Holy Grail. To finally leave the numbingly cold streets, riding off into the sunset on some rich man’s dick. The life of a flesh peddler was riddled with danger. Ironic since it’s main aim was to provide pleasure. Biological and material. If it wasn’t City Council askaris beating them like rabid dogs, they were getting raped by chokoraas, condomless. This made you unwittingly grow thick skin, to stop life from overwhelming you. And Susan’s was exceptionally thick. Her empathy ebbed away with every customer that invaded her vaginal walls and when she had to run in high heels from the authorities who’d catch her anyway, and every time some ruffian forced her thighs apart and attacked her not so private parts. She was teak tough. She sipped her Single Malt Scotch Whiskey and shifted in her seat on the bar stool. Expensive drinks attracted men of discerning taste. Not the Tusker Baridi riff raff who wanted to fuck for free. She asked the bartender for the day’s newspaper. He reached under the counter and handed it to her. There on the front page was the headline, “Kilifi Killer strikes again”. She shook her head. A serial killer had gripped the coastal town of Kilifi in terror after a string of grisly murders.The nature of these murders was calculated and macabre. His victims of choice were beach hoes, the kind that sold only to whites. Several Harlots spoke, under anonymity, to the investigative journalists. Lamenting how business had gone down due to the fear of getting your vagina torn up. That was the mode of murder. He would insert a sharp object into the vagina of his victims and tear it to shreds with devilish ferocity. The victim would die from severe blood loss. As usual the whores asked the Government to intervene. ‘Yeah right!’ Susan thought to herself, the killer could even be some spurned police officer with a vendetta against these girls. Every one knew they were psycho, these policemen. Plus the authorities probably thought the killer was doing them a favour ridding them of these disease riddled prostitutes. There were no leads anyway, no one knew what the killer looked like and he left no trace of himself anywhere. ‘Yeah, definitely a cop’ she thought. He was effectively a phantom. A figment of the imagination with murderous intent. Susan’s attention was divided by the person who sat in the seat next to her. “This seat taken?’ Inquired the husky female voice. “No.” Susan replied. She gave her new counter companion a once over to see what the competition was offering tonight. She was tall but not hulking. Her skin complexion was like a poor man’s tea, with just enough milk powder in it to take the darkness away. Her small dress emphasized her breasts that jutted out like two mountain peaks. Her smile made you feel like you owed it an ode to its beauty. she was stunning.It was going to be a tough night,Susan thought to herself. “Can i buy you a drink?” The beauty asked. Stunned, Susan shot her a look! “You want to buy me a drink? Aren’t you supposed to wait until you get a client so that you can start throwing money around?” She burst out laughing, as if what Susan had said was ridiculous. ” Hi my name is Clara. Mimi sio malaya” Susan blushed. An apologetic shade of red flushed her cheeks. It was then that she realized, Clara was a client. She accepted the offer for a drink, graciously. The conversation was easy, the wit flowed. It was a while since a client had gripped more than her breasts. And so the question intrigued Susan, what was a bombshell like this doing looking to pay for company? Any man who passed the counter couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She could have the pick of any man, and woman in here. But Susan knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. After an hour or so, Clara asked the bartender for the bill and looked at Susan. “Shall we get out of here? ” Susan nodded in agreement and picked up her clutch. The unwritten rule in regards to walking out of a club, was to walk in front of your client, so that they could have a good view of what they were paying for, made sure they didn’t skimp on the payment later. So she did. Sashaying her ample ass in front of Clara. It worked, Clara grabbed her by the waist and whispered in her ear, “Your pussy is mine tonight”. Susan smiled. When they got to the parking lot, Clara dug through her purse for her car keys. Two beeps and a BMW flickered its headlights. Susan tried her best to hide her awe at the unadulterated display of opulence on show. Clara was obviously wealthy too, and she hadnt asked the price was for her services. That was a first for Susan. Susan got into the passenger seat. Clara sped off, clearly comfortable behind the wheel. She drove a few miles from the club, all the while staring at Susan’s thighs. “I cant wait anymore”. She said to her passenger’s surprise. Clara pulled over by the road. She reached for Susan’s hand and pulled her close and met her with her mouth. They kissed deeply, Clara’s tongue sensually licking Susan’s lips. Clara’s hands caressed Susan’s thighs, and started to reach into her skirt. Susan was already wet with anticipation. She parted her thighs to allow Clara inside. Clara could feel Susan’s panties were already drenched! She pulled them to one side and touched her pussy. Susan gasped. She couldn’t believe that she, a seasoned professional, was being strummed like a guitar by a client. She loved it. Clara, put her fingers inside her swollen mons, collecting then rubbing some of the wetness on Susan’s clit. Then she started drawing small circles around it, slowly, applying more pressure with every completed circumference. Susan started heaving. She could already feel the wave, overwhelming her. She was about to cum. She dug her fingers into the car seat as the wave drew closer and closed her eyes…..! The cold of sharp metal inside her vaginal walls, brought her crashing down from the heights of ecstasy. She tried to scream. She couldn’t. Clara had one hand over her mouth, blood lust in her eyes. Clara pushed in the metal again with such force, tears streamed down Susan’s face. The pain was as incredible as it was unbearable. She couldn’t even move to fight Clara off, something in her drink perhaps? With each thrust of the metal, Susan could feel her strength waning, slowly, into oblivion. So this was what death was like, a snail paced decline into nothingness through an ocean of pain and anguish. Before Susan lost consciousness, for good, Clara cupped her face and whispered in her ear. “I liked you, I wish I could’ve waited and taken you to Kilifi”
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party It’s a Saturday today, and yesterday a vast majority of you was our shaking booty and drowning your livers at various Anti-Mututho establishments across this great drinking nation. During all the grinding and winding to Nigerian and Jamaican hits, the girls got wet, wild and horny and the boys complied with hardened members thrusting through jeans into clothed asses on the dance floor. And why not? Dancing has been long considered a mating ritual in the animal kingdom! The Chipo phenomenon proves that humans haven’t been left out of this evolutionary mechanism of picking people to do the bedroom jiggy with. Unfortunately, the great hindrance to a successful dance hall courtship, is the very thing that we rely on to make it easier to get the girl naked. Alcohol. After buying thousands worth of liquor for this girl, you dance and find your pelvises move in a synchrony that could only mean mind blowing sex awaits, she becomes compliant, you make out at a seedy corner of the bar and you’re sure she’s coming home with you. You’re ecstatic, so is she. You buy more drinks, she spends her ‘just in case’ cab money. It is desperation hour (3-4 am) and for once neither of you is desperate. A toast to celebrate!!! At this point one of three things happens, 1. You black out, 2. She blacks out,  3. You both black out. The black out is never immediate. For the girl it almost always happens in the cab on the way to his place. For the dude, in his bed just after he realizes he’s too drunk to get it up. Coupled with the inevitable mwaura-ing (puking), the environment after a night out becomes decidedly unsexy. No sex for either of you and an awkward morning the day after. Flash back to the point after you’ve danced and gotten mad horny on the floor. This is where your first mistake happens people. At this point you should do one of two things 1. Stop drinking 2. Have a quickie. Because none of you are weak pussies I expect you to pick the second option. The quickie is the better option here because you stop drinking by default and you get to give her a mad round of whiskey dick to whet her appetite for later bedroom shenanigans. This isn’t to say that the quickie is fool proof. No. You could fuck it up so bad she’ll stand on the bar and announce it to everyone there, and then walk around all of Westie warning every girl she meets to stay clear of your disaster phallus. This is how to make sure she screams in ululations at that first drunken quickie: 1. Flirting “Ah Minx! Stop telling us the obvious!” If it’s so obvious then why do you get it so wrong? First thing you should get is her number. In this digital age we’re veritable olympic champions at sexting. Do not wait to do it a few days later. Start at the pub. Girls love words. A little undercover sexting, with her friends and yours seated right there, unaware that you just told her she smells so good you can’t wait to take off her panties and bury them in your nostrils. “All I can think about is licking behind your ear, kissing and nibbling on your neck. Tongue trailing lower to the cleft in between you…” Get her so wet and ready, clit throbbing in time with her heartbeat, that the mere suggestion of a quickie makes her pussy quiver. 2. Location, location, location The pub’s restroom, a side street near the club, right there on the dance floor with her dress hiked up and you fly open, an empty room if you’re at a house party, parking lot, in a car…wherever you’re comfortable, the possibilities are endless. The possibility of being caught is sexy as fuck! Actually being caught? Not so much. Be on the lookout for passersby, creeps with cameras (you don’t want to end up on YouTube)—and, er, the police. 3. Get Slippery You have been drinking and alcohol is known to dehydrate. The truth is that no matter how horny she is, she might not be wet enough. To avoid friction that’ll cause a great deal of pain, always be sure to carry lube with you. DO NOT use lotion, Vaseline, baby oil or any petroleum products as lube. That’s just inviting infection to an otherwise delightful vaj. Water based lubricants are perfect for this kind of thing. Invest in a good lubricant. Just a little and you’re raring to go! No foreplay required and perfect after the drying that comes after a night out. 4. Take The Direct Route This is a quickie, any acrobatics take time away when you could be inside her counting to the standard 40 strokes required to make her cum (aye KOT?) Doggie is always a favorite. Give the penis direct access to her gspot and voila! Lightning fast orgasm for her and deep penetration for him. If you’ve chosen a hard surface, like a table or bed, then missionary is the truth. It’s a tried and tested formula and it’s perfect for clitoral stimulation with his pubic bone area. Or you could try stand up sex and have him reach down to your clit and rub away as he thrusts. This will send you over the edge in record time.   The best part of the clubbing quickie is that even if you drink yourself silly afterwards, both of you have had a sterling performance and any failure to perform won’t be as embarrassing. She will respect you as a stallion and he won’t give bitter monologues online about the b**** he spent a fortune on that blacked out in the cab then puked on his converse sneaks. party
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