There aren't any women who can't cum... There are only men who don't do enough.

submitted by Don J Engel  extremesciences@yahoo.com

Define "real-men!", and "3-hourmassage"...

Maybe real-women wouldn't get stuck with husbands and boyfriends who don't have a clue what Woman needs... 

Woman Warrior needs atmosphere...

Does she know she needs soft elevator-music, candle light, tasty oils, warm red wine, insense, massage oils, ambrosia illumination, ellumination, the velvet of soft rose touched to her cheek and throat...A 3 hour massage,  embracing each muscle as it were a trusting wild pet, caressing away aches, pains, fears, history, doubt, time...

In first hour the princess is tantalized from head to toes beginning at her tiniest fingertip in a soft firm squeeze, after squeeze, after squeeze... up and down baby finger in a hundred honest squeezes, and to another finger... Touch paints cool rivers serenading soul's primal fantasy... Tongue tastes a golden mile of buzzing soft flesh, longing for more, more, more...and fearing too much.. A tap into Venus's source pulls Womanhood to a hundred orgasms per minute... till she forgets how to breathe...  and cries out "Stop! stop stop stop" oh stop, no don't stop! I do mean do stop, I think?......An Angel takes a breather break... Gets her breathing under control... and says through the Warrior's hot sly bratty grin, "Can you do it again?", and braces herself for something extremely powerful that she totally doesn't have a clue about, only knows it feels real Good! And it makes her afraid to open her eyes, just incase she is at the ceiling, and to open her eyes might very-well break the spell...

Hour 2, the Princess slept through, while the master removes old scars that only sleep's blindness will release to forget...

Hour 3, whispers, "turn over"...  Princess hasn't a clue what planet she's on... again looks to discover that she's actually totally nude.. and rolls to on her back...Caress empties adrenals steadily along two half-hour rush...Princess surfs cosmic currents... every part of every inch is begging to again meet tongue, breath, roaming fingertip... soul seeks soul, bidding it to come out and play...Relaxed Princess,  master of her night...  rolls and sitz, blinks a lengthy blink, and through passion's sleepy-eyes, asks in soft slow breaking primal speech, upon noticing she's naked, and where she is, "uh? what's your name?"

...could be a novel... could be a movie... could be a perfume... could be you and me...Just how serious and honest is your life?  Could it be, "cosmichonesty"?  

Can the princess handle thought levels beyond Art, Science and blind/suckling religion?...Is there enough time in love for caress and massage?  Can love jump safely from the mechanical-horsy race-track directly into early evening tropical jungle?