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My throat was dry as I approached the door to the clinic. I wondered what it would be like, would it be cold and clinical or warm and sensual, would there be a lot of people around, would I be alone, what would it be like.

I opened the door, and stepped inside, I was in a reception area that was empty except for a receptionist. I hesitated a moment and then she looked up from her work and asked me if she could help me. I told her my name and she looked in a book and said that the doctor would be with me shortly and would I please have a seat. I sat down and picked up a magazine and leafed aimlessly through it, my mine racing on what lay ahead, I could hear soft music playing over the speakers, and the air was heavy with the usual scent of a doctors office. As my mind wondered I was startled to hear my name being called… I looked up and a young lady in the white uniform of a nurse was holding the door open and asking me to follow her. I stood, took a deep breath and followed her down a hall, walking past several examination rooms, finally she stopped, told me to go in,and sit on the table. She took my blood pressure, asked me a few questions about my past [tag]medical[/tag] history, then said the doctor would be in shortly.

I sat there for what seemed like the longest time, when finally I heard a soft knock at the door, the door opened and in stepped a young man, in his early thirties. He introduced himself as Dr. Snyder, we exchanged a few pleasantries and then he asked me what I knew about the research they were doing, I said not much, just that the ad had alluded to research into feminine sexuality. He said that was correct insofar as it went. He said more specifically they were doing research into various methods of women achieving orgasm, and measuring the speed, intensity, and subjective feelings the woman was experiencing during the buildup to [tag]orgasm[/tag] and during the actual orgasm. He went onto explain that the various methods they would be comparing were [tag]masturbation[/tag] by the subject, masturbation using a vibrator, induced by the doctor using clitoral massage, plus a new method they were testing called [tag]electro-stimulation[/tag]. He must have seen my reaction when he mentioned electro-stimulation, because he said, ” I can see you have a question about electro-stimulation.” I said yes, and that I had never heard of it before. He said it held great promise in their studies so far it appeared to be a very pleasant and efficient way to induce an orgasm. He told me that if I decided to proceed, he would explain it in greater detail to me at that time.

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“What’s wrong?” she asked.

She had caught me in a private pity party. I was staring out of my apartment window, looking at the playground across the street. I was looking at the kids playing on the equipment, and I had singled out two boys in particular. One was around eight years old, the other was around four. The exact ages of my sons.

“Nothing you can really help with,” I said, “just missing my boys, is all.” I turned away from the window. Missing my boys. Missing my family. Missing my income. I shook my head. This was the chain of images that tempted me to consider the Solution of Messrs Smith and Wesson in the past. In that moment I was truly grateful my lady was with me.

“I know you miss them,” she said quietly. “I’ve met them, remember? They’re great kids. I miss them, too.” What a pair we were: she could not have children for medical reasons, and because of my divorce I could literally not afford to have any more. And we both liked my kids. Hell, we both liked kids, period.

“You love them, you send them cards, you buy them presents at Christmas and on their birthdays. And you spend as much time with them as you can when you do see them. What can you do if she won’t let them come? You know she always pulls this when you two fight about money.” She tilted her head and thought for a moment. Then she said, quietly, “Why don’t you tell me what really bothers you about the situation?”

I thought for a minute. “It comes down to this: I’ve lost everything I’ve ever had. I’ve lost my house, I’ve lost my kids, I’ve lost half my income, I’ve lost my credit rating, and I’ve lost my self respect.” I thought for another few seconds, “By the time I’m finished paying child support, I’ll be five years away from retirement. I won’t be able to retire, not when I have to hand my ex-wife half my paycheck for the next umpteen years!” I felt robbed. It had been two years since the divorce, and still I could not let the anger go. I was a senior engineer, and my take home pay was the same as a starting teacher. And it was not going to get better for a very long time, if ever.

“So,” she continued quietly, “the divorce robbed you of everything?” She touched my hand, took it in hers, and squeezed it.

I shook my head and smiled. “It did give me a few things, I’ll have to admit.” I chuckled. “Like a few grey hairs…”

She ran her other hand lightly up my other arm, and across my chest. “Anything else?” she said, her eyes sparkling.

“If you’re trying to use sex to get me into a jolly mood,” I said, “you are very close to succeeding.”

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My wife Teri and I have a game going between us. She teases me with her sexy body and the sheer animal lust builds up inside of me. I hold out as long as possible, until I can’t stand it any more and I have to have her! Pretty fun game, huh? It can lead to some quite interesting (and wild) events.

A few nights ago she and I were playing a game of Scrabble. Sometime during the game she got up and left the room (“to use the restroom,” she said), and when she came back, she was wearing extremely revealing negligee. We managed to play a few more turns as my foot explored her sexy legs and body under the table, and my cock throbbed and threatened to bust out of my shorts like the Incredible Hulk. Then she jumped up, laughing, and ran out of the room. Oh was I horny!

I got up, grabbed the bowl of popcorn that was sitting next to the Scrabble board, and headed after her. “I’M COMING FOR YOU!!!” I yelled. “I’M GONNA RIP ALL YOUR CLOTHES OFF AND EAT YOU UP!!!” I could hear her shout from the bedroom, “Eeeeek!! A rapist cannibal!”

My dick was pointing straight out, leading the way down the hall. When I entered the bedroom, I saw her knockout body lying on the bed. She’d removed her bra and pulled on one of my old T-shirts.

“Here I come,” I whispered, and made drooling sounds like some sex maniac who’d broken into the house. She squirmed and writhed on the bed, saying “no, please, don’t hurt me, don’t eat me, I’ll do anything, please…” Her body writhed and undulated, the large breasts jiggling and moving back and forth underneath the T-shirt. I set the popcorn bowl on the nightstand and sat down on the bed next to her. My hands went out and landed on each side of her body. “No please don’t hurt me don’t eat me I’ll do anything don’t kill me” she whispered. Her boobs continued to wiggle and jiggle intoxicatingly, and my hands headed that way of their own volition. They came to her breasts and squeezed. “Ooooooh!” she moaned, as her whole body seemed to spasm in response to the feel of my clutching hands. That darn T-shirt was hiding those beautiful boobs, her delicious body. I had to look at it, feel it, lick it, kiss it! My hands slid down to the bottom front of the shirt, and took firm hold. Muscles flexing, fueled by intense horniness, my arms pulled my hands away from each other…

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I started sailing on freighters when I was 18 years old. That was back in 1967, and I’ve been sailing ever since. It’s a good life for a guy who likes to be free, travel and have adventures.

Not the same kind of adventures the old timers had on those sailing vessels, though. Those days belong to ancient history. I’m talking about bedroom adventures. That was what I was looking for when I started out and I’m still looking for them, although I have had them all around the world.

I’ve been a pussy freak since I was 12. I guess you could describe me as a seaman by trade and a lover by inclination.

I’ve read these articles by different guys who said one certain ethnic type of woman was the best balling. I’ve tried them all and I can’t say that… they are ALL good! But don’t let anyone tell you that women are the same all over the world either. They are all different. Basically built the same of course, but still different in so many wonderful, interesting ways.

In Asia, Africa and Latin America, the only woman a sailor can get close to is a professional. Married women don’t dare play around and single girls live at home and are closely guarded.

But those whores are different than the walking cash register, automatic pussies we have here in the States. Those Asian, African and Latin American hookers enjoy what they do for a living and even the best of them ask so little in terms of US currency that it’s almost free.

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“Ohesotte nani?” I asked on the way to the bathroom, examining my navel. Beth, reading on the floor, ignored the question.

From the door of the bathroom, I looked down at her for probably twenty seconds before I said, quietly with a hint of humor, something completely out of character for me: “Spread your legs.” This she reacted to, but only barely. She lifted and spread her knees so I could peer down her skirt. She continued to read.

Beth and I had taken to [tag]teasing[/tag] each other and, behind her book, I could see a slight mischievous grin. Turnabout being fair play, I turned my back and closed myself into the bathroom. We were going to be late for an important Japanese quiz, but I didn’t much care. I counted to two hundred after I had flushed, then made my exit.

She was still reading.

Still lying with her legs apart, she waited about five heartbeats before looking at me. My belt was still unfastened, and she, with the book held nonchalantly in one hand, said “Do you want some help with that?”

“Spread your legs wider,” I suggested; it was not an order.

Still holding on to the book, she pulled her skirt up enough to allow her to comply. Her mischievous grin was not so slight anymore. “I’d very much like help with this,” I said. She arched an eyebrow. “Please,” I finished.

She rose to her knees and ran her hands up my thighs to my belt. She ignored the belt and opened the buttons on my jeans. I tried to take a scolding tone, but my smile leaked through: “You’re going to make us late for our quiz.” Her only response was a “hmm” and her fingers slowly rubbing me through my underwear.

While continuing to softly stroke me, she maneuvered me into a chair. One hand slid over the top of my underwear and grasped me firmly, her hand cool against me. She began to work me very, very slowly while looking straight into my eyes with the look that she knew drove me crazy.

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