Her First Ass Experience
Asshole ripped
I know the way she thinks. I know her mind, almost as intimately as I know her body. She has shy, quiet places that have greeted me timidly, and she has assertive places that offer themselves with the assurance that is her definitive quality. Mind and body. I have thought that I know them all, as much as anyone knows, as much as she herself knows. I have even thought, with the arrogance that annoys her, that I know much about her that she does not. I know her. This is what I have thought. This is what I be- lieved. I believed that I could chart her progress with the high degree of accuracy that such a craft demands, that I could pre- dict, even predetermine her actions--the ideas that occurred to such a splendid mind, the pleasure provided by her long, slender body. Arrogance? She would have thought so, while acknowledging the same failing in herself. Did I love her for her mind? Her mind was not a thoroughly lovable organ, true. There were flaws there, her own arrogance, her volatility, her strange fits of moodiness. Her maddening insecurity. And can such flaws seem endearing? Oh, I thought so. They all conspired to create a puzzling, absorbing creature that grabbed my attention and held it, through irritation at times, and at others through affection.