Over the years I have been asked, occasionally co-erced, to perform various tasks, deeds of valor or otherwise. Some I have elected to fulfil, others not, for reasons ranging from personal preference to circumstantial inability. Never though have I been asked, up until this week at least, to fuck someone verbally. That isn’t to say I can’t or even necessarily that I don’t wish to – it is simply a dynamically unusual request.

Now when it comes to fucking people, one has to look at the deed firstly in its most basic and in actuality, rather comical form. Typically, one can expect to find one (at least) rampant male, hormones in free-flow having cornered, subdued or in the worst-case scenario – paid for a women, in whatever circumstances have drawn the two together. Having most usually removed her clothing, or if patently desperate, simply her panties, he then pinions her to the floor, bed, wall, rear car seat or chandelier and inserts, with varying degrees of indignity, his vastly over-rated penis into that natty little lipped sac between her legs. Grunting, jerking, slobbering – more often than not all three, he will then rut away with completely uninhibited delight seeking to reach a chemical plateau at which point his DNA-soaked sperm jam up and jelly tight before crossing that bridge at a brisk pace, to the woman’s ovulation-freeway. It is this transitional period, the male finds vastly to his liking.

During the “fucking phase” men are not known for their literate dialog. How many other ways after all, can one express the notion “Oh yeah hun,” “Take it deep babe,” or “Ride my dick slut,” without resorting to laughable clinicisms such as, “I say Julie, would you mind awfully if I shoved my rather engorged penis way up inside your devilishly hot vagina for just a few minutes?”

So immediately you can see we’re talking here a whole new creative ball-game. When a girl says to you “Fuck me verbally please,” she is wanting “communicative purpose,” “depth of shared emotion,” “experiential guidance,” at the very least, some innovative and passionate appreciation of her femininity.

So too is she entitled to that.

Sex via the written word.

The quintessential chat-room opening “What color panties you wearing luv?” might be seen as an example of this. In fact, all this ever achieves is to confirm the moronic status of the male participant. Think about it! Its hardly going to turn the girl on is it? – she already knows what color knickers she has on. It’s like most every other aspect of male sexual behavior – geared principally to the achieving of his own gratuitous satisfaction. Egocentric endplay in other words.

With regards therefore to the young lady who made the rather poignant plea for me to “fuck her verbally,” this is the very least I can do. Now whilst this is in the way of a personal reply and I composed this for her specifically because of the wonderful person she is, I’m sure she will not mind if I add the comment that what I write has relevance to every other girl on the planet, uniquely desirable as every one is in their own way. No argument about that. If it were possible, I would be there with all of you and I would love you all equally. If when you have read this and hopefully having followed my (deliberately) obscurely referenced byplays at various intervals, you then close your eyes, you will realise that in fact I am with you. I always was!

How exquisite you are! Have you ever really looked and realised the privilege it has been to be born female? Tonight, I will make you more aware of this fact than ever you have been. I will bring you to to the gates of your own temple.

How did we arrive at this confluence in our lives? It doesn’t really matter does it? Merely that I am here and that I want to share a gift with you that so few understand, let alone respect.

Ahead of anything, I want you simply to be aware of your body as you read. Feel how snug your beautiful breasts are cupped in that little bra. If you concentrate enough you will be able to feel your nipples, even as you breathe. Besides their naturally intended use, they utterly define your femininity. If you feel like caressing them, please do. Imagine soft lips, whether your child’s, mine or a future lover’s, drawing down softly in what is ultimately, merely a quest for comfort. A flared memory recalled fleetingly. The protective instinct and cradled safety of a mother’s arms down through the ages.

Even at this early stage, the slightest of physiological changes are taking place in your body. Besides the noticeable swelling at the base of your nipples caused by blood transfer, the imperceptible increase to your pulse-rate and the delicate flush resident now in your cheeks, you know even without the confirmation of touch, that within, moves are most definitely afoot to facilitate my participation.

Marginally unsure of exactly what is to happen, you sit there gazing at me – a little girl of eight, a nervous teenager, an adult female on the verge of a completely new discovery ... a pastiche of all these. The only two things you sense with any conviction – that you are ultimately safe and that you want what it is that I possess. The key to your complete sexual fulfilment. I know not how or why I came thus equipped, merely that I did and that much like the full-moon itself, circumstances inevitably fall into a precise alignment that was set in motion long before either of us were born.

I want you to feel warm. I need you to feel wanted. You desire my intimacy just as much as I desire yours.

Simply looking at you is enough of a treat. I notice the little things. The tiny smile playing about your lips betraying in part your nervousness as well as your fully understandable pride in your birthright. It promotes also just a hint of flirtatious tease. I know it, you know it! The small lock of hair you keep unconsciously flicking away from your forehead, as if it matters! Your pretty feet, one shuffling atop the other now that you have felt sufficiently relaxed to give those shoes a miss. That you may or may not have loved another before matters but little. This is tonight. With me you are the breathless, incontrovertibly pure virgin you always were and in my experience always will be.

Your pupils dilate slightly as I kneel in front of you and take your hands in my own. There are so many things I could say, but words are superfluous. You know how I feel, you can see that in my own pupils.

My eyes caress you – from the curve of your breasts, a hint of which you quite deliberately permitted by your choice of top, to the flair of your hips and the hidden recesses between your thighs. You are not offended by my gaze as there is nothing to be offended by. Never was my glance lustfully motivated, simply steeped in appreciation and wonderment of so perfect a creation. Some of what I feel, you sense and instinctively your hand rises to your own breasts before you realise what you are doing. Swiftly you drop your hand back in your lap.

Even as the blush rises in your cheeks, I gently take a hold of your hand and raising it with fixed deliberation, replace it beneath your right breast. I encourage you to once again cup yourself and in fact cover your hand with my own. Together we begin to caress the softness that God has given to you and you let slip the slightest gasp. Watching as you rub yourself softly at the behest of my own hand I am totally aroused myself. More than anything I want now to suckle you and to draw your nipples between my own lips. How easy it would be ... and how ill-timed.

Edging closer, I lay you gently back in the chair and very carefully take a hold of both your legs some six inches or so below the knee. I feel, rather than hear the sharp intake of breath and the momentary expression of concern that flits across your pretty face. You make no move to either sit-up or stop me however and I am happy for the trust I know you feel. Inclining my head, I kiss your knees and am aware immediately of your pleasured wriggling. Making deliberate eye contact, I pull apart your legs but the slightest angle.

Sitting there, you can hardly believe the moisture that is gathering in those southern climes. The cotton fabric you know is now quite wet and you are embarrassed perhaps that I may soon make that very same discovery. Casting a momentary glance down your bra you are stunned additionally by the quite visible effect the escalating arousal factor is having on your nipples. This of course is an opportune moment to take a gentle hold of them yourself now and to further stimulate them.

Parting your legs ever wider, I can see now the silky-smooth skin of both thighs and the event horizon at which they disappear beneath the rather tasteful little pair of knickers curving down with such promise in my direct line of vision. I kiss the inside of your thigh as your increasing angle of incidence causes the hemline to ride ever higher. One can readily forget the square on the hypotenuse. It’s the sum of the angles on the other two sides that interests me.