The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I’d given up on meeting any man I could really, really love. While I liked, and had loads of fun with, many great guys, that soaring, “twitterpated” feeling of LOVE! eluded me. I wanted, and needed, that almost-once-in-a-lifetime, emotional orgasm that comes only with the real thing. So, by the time it hit me, I was cynical and certain that love was a terrible joke historical romance writers perpetrated on us horny, gullible females. Then IT happened. I literally bumped into a man I would spend a great deal of genuine quality time with.

His name was Quinten Salgado. He had been educated in England and, and the United States, and at the time we met, was staying with family friends in the Scottsdale Arizona area. He was half Spanish and half English, his mother British, his father a successful businessman from Cadiz, Spain. At the time we met, he was looking into the possibility an American business operation and had taken time from his business activities to visit his alma mater, the University of Arizona.

A group from Phoenix had come down for the annual football rivalry between the University of Arizona and Arizona State University, this year held in Tucson. I had been invited along. I was was with a date, but one that was more a friend than a lover, so I was not seriously involved with anyone.

I was not watching where I was going and ran headlong into Quinten during the half time show. Dashing down the rows of seats and into the tunnel leading to the concession stands, and the rest rooms, I crashed into him. I forgot all about having to pee when I looked up into his warm, brown eyes. Even for the very sexually responsive me, my reaction was surprisingly quick as we stood inches apart there in the tunnel. He touched my hand slightly as he apologized for an error that was not his, and in seconds the crotch of my lavender, satin underpants began to dampen. I forgot where I was and even who I was as I gazed up at him. I even forgot about my purse which had fallen and spilled open at my feet.

He was polite and concerned, laughing as he bent to retrieve my purse. But—horrors!—when my shoulder bag had hit the concrete of the ramp, the latch had popped open, spilling many of its contents onto the surface. Among those was my packet of condoms, magnum size. He placed the items, including the pack of condoms, back into my bag, snapped it closed and handed it to me without a smirk or snicker. But my face flamed and I snatched my bag from him and fled, choking with embarrassment, cursing the mischance that had robbed me of getting to know such a beautiful man.

However, fate wasn’t done with me. At the after game party, who should I see but that same gorgeous, but now certainly unavailable, man. There was no way I would, or could, engage in exploratory small talk with a man who had seen my the arrant evidence that I was sexually active. I was liberated, and prudent, but even in those times, it could be argued that only prostitutes carried condoms in their purses.

But he was very interested in me from that instant we bumped into each other, and he was more determined than ever to continue our contact when he saw me at the party. He apparently inquired among the guests until he found someone who knew me and then arranged an introduction.

I stood, mute and furious, as my date introduced us to each other. My only wish—no matter how beautiful and charming and God awful desirable he was—was to a get away. But he would not let me leave. As soon as we were standing alone for a brief moment, he said,

“You are not only an attractive woman but a very wise one as well.”

I knew what he meant, but before I could form a sharp reply and get the devil out of there, he went on to say,

“Please, don’t be embarrassed. A beautiful woman with such good judgment is refreshing to know. However, please believe me that I make no presumption nor assume any liberties because of your intelligent discretion.”

I caved in at that point. Condoms or not condoms, this guy had the grace to take a lady off an ugly hook and make it sound like poetry. Before I left the party, he had my name, my telephone number and my wholehearted interest. I was sure he would not call me, or if he did, it would be strictly for an amorous romp. And he did call.

I accepted, and although I still felt it was a lost cause, it was still nice to spend some time with him, chatting over cocktails. Before too long however, we were both actually laughing about my little cache of protection, and yet I never once felt as if he were even thinking about a snicker. It was, I told myself, only a pleasant interlude.

Much to my surprise, a couple of days later, he called again, and when he did, I was not even close to acting coy at his suggestion of dinner the next evening. I would have broken a date with Paul Newman to go to the local Circle-K with Quinten, or Quint as I called him after that.

Skip the long, lovely and romantic preamble—not that it’s boring in the least—we did end up in bed. It was glorious. It was especially glorious because my sexual ardor did not make him insecure or scared as it had many other men. Quinten was a cultured, educated gentleman, but he was also one hell of a stud, to put it somewhat bluntly.

As I said, I had learned, to my rue, that if I dared to let my feelings out, many men were intimidated or annoyed enough not only to drop me but sometimes to even pass my name around. Although I was so afraid this new and wonderful man might hear the stories, I nevertheless let him seduce me on our fifth date. I would have let him on the second date because I had puddled my panties and was fighting those warn, insistent waves half an hour into our date. Regrettably, he didn’t really try.

I don’t know if his technique was better or worse than other men because I simply wanted him for himself and the devil with technique. He was loving and gentle but when it got down to the nitty gritty, the man was equipped with a staying power, and an anatomy, that made me want to sell my clothes and never get out of his bed!

He could have been much less than average sexually and I would have loved him just as much. Most men can’t seem to understand that a woman loves—or lusts for—a man for what he is, not what he has hanging between his legs. Any penis is a good one when it’s given with love and gentleness and is attached to someone you care for. But with Quint, the big penis was like a bonus and I was both thrilled and nervous about having him in me.

There were some awfully tense moments when we both realized that we might end our present date in his bed. Good conversation over an excellent meal led to coffee at his condo, then cuddling on the couch, listening to good music, and then some light kissing and necking that quickly escalated to heavy necking. I was at the edge of my control, the Wolf Woman beginning to take shape, when Quint abruptly stopped kissing me and moved away slightly.

“I think my air conditioning has failed,” he chuckled. “It seems to be getting unusually warm in here?”

Now I had almost never heard of a man backing off and making allusions to being overexcited. Either this was a variation of an old line or my new interest had a problem of some sort.

He had a problem, but to my way of thinking, it was hardly a problem at all. You see, Quint was not only larger than most men, he was also blessed—or cursed, if you are a cold woman—with a sex drive that would have earned him a slot in the sex movie hall of fame. Of course, international trade was his occupation so he hadn’t been in any Triple-X rated movies. His interest in pornography, interestingly enough, was only casual.

I am sure he knew that I was not a shrinking virgin at thirty-four-point-five years old, but nevertheless he felt compelled to give me his standard discourse about physical needs and anatomical differences. I’d never heard him so awkward or agitated and I didn’t know what he was getting at until he finally blurted out,

“Anne, I like you very much—more than like you. But if we go further with each other, there’s something you need to know.”

Oh, no! I thought. He’s married, he’s gay, he has a horrible disease!

He actually blushed as he went on to say, “I’m not like a lot of men. I have a very, very powerful sexual drive. Please believe me; I’m not bragging.”

Obviously, he was not reading my expression because he plunged on. “I could never make excessive demands on a woman I loved, but I have such needs that I might want to make love too often.” Then, adding some frosting to my cake, he said, “I am burdened with more than my just share of . . . of size. I know a woman might be alarmed at first. If you want to stop now, I will understand.”

Stop? Oh, Lord, I was ebullient, quivering with eagerness! As long as he didn’t want to try anal sex, I didn’t have a problem in the least. I leaned over and kissed him, letting him feel the tip of my naughty little tongue.

“I need to tell you something too, Quint,” I said as I pulled back. “I have a little problem too. I’m sort of slow to finish. That is, I have to, uh, keep trying and trying.”

He looked slightly puzzled at first, then as I babbled on, he began to grin. “You’re telling me that you are very passionate, or that you cannot respond?”

I shook my head quickly, feeling tears of frustration starting. “No, no. I respond—positively. Very often.”

“Ah,” he smiled, holding my hands tightly, “you mean once is not enough for you?”

I nodded, hardly daring to look him in the eyes.

“I don’t see any problem in that,” he said evenly.

“Okay,” I said, my heart slamming dents in my ribs. “Right now for example I’m making a soppy mess of my underpants. But I still need to be loved more than once to truly enjoy it.”

I was assuming, because of his effect on me, that he would be able to take me to the heights of ecstasy despite my earlier failed efforts in that direction.

He grinned again and then stood up. “It seems that you are an exceptionally passionate woman.”

“That depends upon the man I’m with,” I said carefully. “With you, I am a very, very passionate woman. But some men feel I’m . . . sort of difficult about it. Oh, Quint, I wish I could say that I’m a virgin or something close to that, but I honestly can’t.”

He ignored my little confession and instead asked,

“You scratch?”

I shrugged.

“You bite? And even say naughty things perhaps?”

I nodded.

“You need a man who can likewise be, ah, free in bed, right?”

I nodded again, looking past his shoulder, my face hot.

“Oh,” he said thoughtfully. “I see. Do you somehow feel this is not ladylike?”

“Yes. I mean, it’s all fine and dandy until things get warmer, then I get sort of crazy and I don’t ever want to quit.”

“So, to be ladylike, you hold it all in, but you hate doing that, correct?”

I nodded affirmatively.

“Good!” he said in a low, hot tone. “I hoped you were like that!”

Throughout all of this exchange the question of fidelity had not come up as yet. I didn’t want to muff my chances with him by making demands, but the way I was feeling then I had to know if I was a one-nighter or not, and if he had heard any of the stories. I mentally estimated that I had been intimate with several dozen men to that point. For the first time, I sincerely regretted my liberal ways.

“Quint,” I finally said, “I do want you, but I don’t want just a casual . . . partner. If I go to bed with you now, it’s because I honestly want to, but I hope it’s the beginning of a long relationship Perhaps I’m asking too much because I haven’t always been, uh, completely virtuous, but I can and will be if that’s what we both want. Can you accept that?”

Wham! I was scooped up and carried into his bedroom, just like good old Scarlet O’Hara in the movie. The bedroom held a huge, canopied bed, soft lighting, a deep pile rug and I saw a very professional looking stereo along one wall.

“Love,” he said, as he switched on the stereo, “is what matters between a man and a woman, not how many times it happens or how athletic the lovemaking is. But,” he turned to me, “some people are blessed—or cursed, depending—with strong drives. For them, a good thing is even better done again and again and again, and better each time.” He gazed down at me on the bed where he had deposited me, and then began to unbutton his expensive shirt. If he had been six seconds slower getting it off, I would have ripped it off of him.

He said, “If you need to, the bathroom is through that door. I’m sorry that I don’t have anything appropriate for you to wear.”

I shook my head. “That’s all right. Please excuse me for a bit, okay?”

I scampered into the living room, grabbed my purse and then ran into the bathroom. His bathroom was larger than many bedrooms with a huge, sunken tub, a jacuzzi, dual sinks and even live plants. It was the sort of bathroom one could spend a day in. I quickly undressed, inserted my pessary—my backup—combed my hair. I thought about all the fancy bed wear I had at home and smiled at the irony of it all. With a pack of condoms cupped in my palm, headed back to the large master bedroom, wearing just my underpants, my heart banging and my mouth dry.

Quint was in bed with the thick quilt pulled up to his waist. The lights were low and the classical music from the stereo just enough to make a pleasant background. I was close to nude of course, hoping that none of my tiny figure flaws showed as I made my entrance. Quint turned back the quilt next to him, his eyes fixed on me.

“My God,” he said softly. He couldn’t have said anything that sounded better.

I climbed into the big bed, settled down beside him, and prepared to be taken. But instead of swarming over me, he produced two filled glasses and a bottle of good wine. Handing me one glass, he said,

“As I recall, you prefer the sparkling wine.”

I took the glass from his hand and tried a small sip. It did start a different kind of glow in my tummy. His arm came around behind me on the big pillow and I automatically moved closer to him. I could feel myself getting wet and oh so ready as I felt his arm behind my neck. Suddenly, I wanted to be taken, to be lifted and pierced and transported into some swirling, fiery place that only he could take me. I was having trouble taking a deep breath and the wine seemed to shoot straight to my head.

When matters of the heart are involved, at least in our somewhat Puritan culture, frank, sexual detail is supposed to be gratuitous. Nevertheless, after all I’ve confessed up to this point, I am not about to be hypocritical about sex with a very special man. I intend to get graphic—very—about something personal. So please indulge me in this bit of apparent braggadocio because, compared to what I experienced that night, with a man I really cared for, all previous sexual romping was the equivalent of pre-teen playing doctor. I will try not to exaggerate—not too much anyway. We were a healthy, sexually active and well matched couple, and moreover, falling in love. The physical, and emotional, consequences of our getting together in a sexual way deserves better than mincing words and pallid euphemisms.

I’m afraid that I slugged down the rest of my wine rather than sipped it, wanting to be in his arms instantly. He seemed to sense my feeling because he set his glass down, turned to me and pulled me to him, his mouth on mine. Right then, I was warm enough to fry eggs, but I knew better than to expect any skyrockets. We slid lower on the pillows and I felt the hard length of his erect penis insistent against my belly as we fitted ourselves to one another. It was a little awkward at first, just as it always is when two people are together for the first time. I don’t remember who removed my underpants but I recall seeing them arch upward and drift to the floor after our third kiss.

He wasn’t indulging in empty bragging about his endowments. His penis put my old friend Waldo to shame. While I certainly didn’t whip out a tape measure, I found that I could wrap both my hands around his mortal weapon with a Waldo length left over. I felt a momentary apprehension as I held his awesome phallus in my hands and I knew that I was in for a thorough reaming.

There wasn’t anything that could deter me from being with him. Even though he was very large—very!—I was so awfully, awfully wet and ready that, with a little care, I knew that I could accommodate him. He was slow and easy, even though I could tell he was very eager to join with me. After some very nice hugging and kissing, with his cock pressing hard against my aching belly, I rolled over on my back and pulled him to me.

I moved under him ,my legs parting, knees lifting, very ready for him. Somehow, I had forgotten the pack of condoms I’d brought from the bathroom. I guess I trusted him in some deep way not to harm me by disease or pregnancy.

I don’t suppose there is any really graceful way for a man to mount an eager lady. Her legs spread, and he has to get in between them without bashing or bumping and without seeming to be hasty as an animal in rut, even if that’s the way he feels. And it takes a moment of adjustment, a moment of getting lined up with each other before they can settle down into the comfortable “two-backed beast” and enjoy each other. Hopefully, it doesn’t get too awkward or proceed too quickly after that.

Oh, what can I say that hasn’t been overstated in some torrid sex novel? Anatomical detail notwithstanding, he took me, and filled me as I’d never been taken and filled before! And yes, even as thoroughly explored as I was to that point in my misspent life, he stretched me enough to cause some discomfort. But the feel of him on me and in me inspired me to where I had puddled the sheet under us before he made his first easy, exploratory stroke—about half his length, I estimate. I didn’t flinch or cry out, at least not obviously.

He pushed up on his stiffened arms and smiled down at me with a look of pleasant surprise. I could have told him that when she is ready—truly ready—a woman can handle almost anything down there, including a whole baby’s head. I’m afraid I did show off a little by lifting my legs and hooking my heels on the backs of his thighs. I smiled up at him and nodded as if to say, ‘Okay, go ahead.’

I lifted my upper body to him, kissed him a welcome, and then lay back to be thoroughly fucked. And that he did. Once he realized that I was not only willing to accept him but downright eager, he let himself out and joyfully thrust away on me.

It did push the breath out of me each time he downstroked, but it was heavenly to bear. As I lay under him, trying to match his movements, I expected him to explode in orgasm any second. But he didn’t, not right away anyhow. Oh, he came, but he didn’t even slow down before launching into a second event. My whole being then was being filled with him then, not just my vagina. That essence added to my natural lubrication and things got easier. It was a longer time before he came again, but when he did, it was just as powerful and opulent as the first time had been.

Most women claim they don’t really feel a man’s semen ejaculating up in them, but I do. Oh, maybe it was my erotic imagination, but as Quint came each time, I felt a sudden liquid warmth filling me and even spilling out. And, per his request, I didn’t hold it back either, digging my nails into his back and fastening my teeth on his shoulder as we rocked to a pinnacle. I was not showing it off; I do that naturally, wanting to devour my man, to possess him and to nail him to me.

But after the second time, when Quint made no move to roll away, I knew I had found a real man, a real lover. He stayed where he was, on me and in me and even though he had diminished in size, I could still feel him inside, relaxed but still filling me. Sometimes, that is the most delicious part of lovemaking and I was very glad that he knew enough to hold me that way and not withdraw.

As I felt him still inside me, so slow to shrink, I moved out from under him carefully. He looked resigned for a second, and disappointed, until I said,

“You pointed out that you like a woman to be free in bed, right? Well, there is something I would very much like to do with you, if you don’t mind.”

He frowned slightly, wondering, until I slipped lower on him and, resting my cheek on his abdomen, began to stroke him. He was not completely flaccid yet so he was still awesome to behold. As I slowly moved my hand on him, I was amazed that I had taken that impressive love weapon into me with no more discomfort than I had felt. In a moment, Quint lay back, his eyes closed, enjoying what I was doing with him. Then I carefully placed my lips over the head of his organ. He stiffened slightly, then relaxed again. Stretching my lips, I took as much of him into my mouth as I could. I could taste the two of us on him as I began to fellate him, slowly and tenderly. He sighed and I felt him responding, beginning to come erect once more. I kept it up until he was almost as big as he must have been when we began. I pushed myself up and he grasped me by the shoulders as if to lay me down beside him. But I stopped him, pushing on his chest—he had a nice crop of hair, I noticed—until he lay back down. I swung my leg over him, and staying up on my knees, I took his erection in my hand and guided him to me.

The second I felt that massive head begin to part me, I almost wished I hadn’t been such a showoff. But I was committed and so I gingerly settled down on him, gasping quietly as I felt the length of him piercing me, stretching me. Even though I had just been intruded upon and was so open and moist, it was a teeth-gritting effort to take him into me again. I leaned forward, still a bit up on my knees, took his face in my hands and kissed him. As we kissed, I slowly lowed myself onto him. Wonder of wonders, I managed to accept him until my butt was resting on his loins.

I hesitated a little before I started a slow movement, up and then settling back down, very carefully. I hadn’t done that more than three or four times when Quint began to groan. I hadn’t been trying for that effect really, but that achingly slow movement obviously was pleasuring him more than a little. So I deliberately kept up that slow, teasing rhythm until he grunted with impatience, grasped my hips and urged me to a quicker pace.

He stuffed me each time he pulled me downward, lifting up to me with short, hard strokes. I pushed back, bracing myself on his shoulders.

I’d been so concerned about his size, I admit, and the way I felt emotionally, that my own climax was not really on my mind at the time. Then the Big O snuck up on. Quint was forty-two years old and still he could come erect again and again without withdrawing. I wanted to whoop with joy but I kept silent, carefully moving my buttocks, just wanting to give him maximum pleasure.

I was simply letting him move me, loving with my man and wallowing in sheer pleasure, concentrating on moving with him, loving the feeling when I felt the familiar, fiery dragon tail uncoiling in my belly. But this time if was different. My head went numb, my legs went numb and the boiling surf rolled over me, harder and quicker, choking off my breath and scooping me up, out and away in a whirling, tingling blaze of glory. I straightened up, involuntarily, arching back as the feeling tore through me.

I heard someone using my voice, saying, “Oh, God! Oh, Darling!” over and over again. And when I spiraled down for a moment, falling forward, my hands fisting in his chest hair, Quint seized my arms and I saw the scratches on his chest. I didn’t have time to apologize or even feel embarrassed before my rollercoaster took off again and I undulated up and away once more.

I didn’t bother to count after the second time I orgasmed but I imagine it was more than three or four times. Our joined bodies and the sheet under us were sopping wet as Quint drove up to me again and again in a long, steady rhythm. And when the hot dragon in my lower belly came to life once more, writhing and expanding outward and tearing my mind away. I had time for just one tiny gasp of surprise before my breath was snatched away along with the rest of me. I know I clamped down on him with my legs, my body going into uncontrolled jerks as I arched back once more and rocketed to a peak. All Quint could do was hold my hips tightly as I was gone, gone, gone. I had found my Big One with a live man and I was done for. I was his anyway he wanted me. Spent and dizzy, I flopped onto him, panting and sobbing and feeling a release that I must have stolen from some storelocker in heaven. Gently Quint rolled me off of him and I sighed as I felt him slip from me.

As we lay, snuggled together in a warm afterglow, Quint asked me why I felt that I was so excessive in my sexual demands. I responded by confessing that I had been with a number of other men and that I had a couple of bad experiences with angry men. But he waved it off as unimportant, so I continued, trying to explain.

“I was cool about sex until a few months ago, then I seemed to go wild. I found I just couldn’t get enough.” I looked at him for a reaction, but when he didn’t recoil in disgust, I went on.

“Women aren’t supposed to want sex that way, but I do. Please, it isn’t that I have to have just any man! I want one man, one love, but as you can see, I’m just too hot once I’m aroused.”

“Too hot?” he chuckled, hugging me. “And men complained about that? You have unfortunately been with fools. Without love, sex is merely an exercise, a chore, and in that case, once is enough perhaps. But when there is love along with the need, then there’s no real limit; only the limits of health and energy should keep you from expressing what you feel.

“You are a warm, loving woman, but unfortunately you have been convinced that your passion is wicked or demanding because you’ve been dealing with other’s guilt and shame. Sex is not a thing apart from life, nor is it the end of love, Darling, but only a means of expressing it. Your passion is your gift to a man you care for, not a challenge to his manhood.”

I hugged him, feeling suddenly free as I plunged into deep sleep instantly.

There was never a question of my staying the night. I didn’t want to be apart from him long enough to go home and change. I curled up in his arms and drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, as soon as he saw I was awake, he gathered me in his arms. I suspect I have a little dragon breath in the morning, so as soon as I knew he was serious about kissing and cuddling, I jumped up and scooted for the big bathroom, rinsed my mouth out under the gold plated faucet, splashed water on my sleepy face and hurried back to him.

Neither one of us was completely certain as to how far the cuddling might go, but I didn’t really care. I simply wanted to held by him. I was innocently toying with the hair on his chest, feeling a bit guilty about the scratches there when I felt his beloved anatomy nudging my thigh. I raised an eyebrow at him, questioningly. He grinned and shrugged. I whipped back the covers, did a quick turn around and took him into my mouth. It took a few minutes but he came up to almost full staff. Without letting go of him, I rolled on my back and tugged him over to me.

It was so slow and easy, just rocking together, him braced on his elbows and me stroking his nicely muscled back that I was totally surprised when my dragon awoke again. I must have gasped or gone tense for a second, signifying that I was reaching my completion, because he grasped my calves in his hand, lifted my legs and began to drive into me with long, deep strokes. I blew up then. One quick breath and then I was launched, riding those hot, pink waves of delicious insanity, spiraling up again until my body exploded. It was a long time before I came back out of orbit, holding him close and nuzzling his shoulder.

“Oh, Quint, I love you!”

It came easily, without a thought and without the necessity of a response. Surely I thought, he had many, many women who had said that to him, but I didn’t want to know about them. I admitted to myself that I was jealous of any and all of them, but they would not matter if he felt half of what I did at that moment. As I lay in his arms, relaxed, he gazed at me in a thoughtful way for a couple of minutes, then he said,

“That’s it.”

For just an instant, I was heartbroken, thinking that I had been cruelly dismissed, but then he completed his thought.

“No one else. I want you and only you. Anne, stay with me always.”

He didn’t have to hear my response to that because he could see it in my eyes. We both went to my apartment that afternoon and I selected the items I needed in order to move in with him. Three months after I moved in, and after just one two-week separation, he arranged for his firm to transfer him to the States as he termed the U S of A.

I imagine that we will marry sometime in the near future. It’s not something so urgent, but just simply more convenient, and I also imagine, more to his family’s liking. I have to learn some of the finer points of the society he moves in, but that’s not a problem inasmuch as I already knew which fork to use and how to keep from behaving like a female barbarian, at least out of the bedroom, hah! With or without marriage, ours is a long term relationship. The way we feel about each other, how could it be any other way?

Not only am I in love with him, but what’s more, I’m now carrying his child. That suits him just fine. I know we were careful, but the more you do it, the greater the odds of birth control failing. At that rate, the way we went at it, I should have been preggers the first night. Sorry, I’m bragging again.

Once we are married, I shall probably have to pretend to buy all that male superiority bull that gets the nod around his part of the world and act like a modest and dutiful wife and not let anyone know that my favorite pastime is screwing my dear husband’s brains out three or four times a day.

I’ve said a great deal about the sexual side of our union, and that’s very important to both of us, but we get along well on a vertical basis as well. Sex alone cannot carry a relationship no matter how good it is, so thank God we agree on most, if not all, non-sexual issues as well. When we disagree, we can sit down and discuss our feelings without either of us feeling attacked or criticized. And when we talk, as from the first, it is always frank and honest. I was both sympathetic and delighted for example to find that, like me, he too despite his strength and intelligence, had been betrayed and used because of his carnal abilities.

Finally, they say that we are guided to that which we need, and when we are ready, we find it. A few years or even months earlier, I could not have—would not have—been the right woman for Quint. He would have been patient about it of course, because that’s how he is, but he would have suffered having to repress his high sexual energy for a woman of less feeling and lower capacity. But since the change in me, I match him urge for urge, so all we need is the time to be together. Who is to say; I may be a nymphomaniac and he a satyr by some people’s standards, but does it really matter? We suit each other and love each other and that’s what is important. Es verdad?—isn’t that so?—as they say in his country.