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A Woman Who Loves Men

Hello, out there in Internet Land. This is Mother
Debbie, again. In my little corner of the World Wide
Web, I'm your sounding board, advisor and provider of
motherly advice to those mothers' sons who are in the
less endowed crowd. You know who you are. You're not
jocks. You have only a weenie. You are not very
sexually experienced. You have a mild mannered,
unassuming personality. You are trusting, altruistic,
optimistic and always looking for the good, rather
than the worse in people, especially in the women in
your life. You may have been labeled as a "wimp,"
"sissy," or "mama's boy" by your family, friends or
others. You may be the one who's been taken advantage
of, even if it was done with love, by your
girlfriends, fianc´┐Że, wife, or mother-in-law and
sometimes by your own mother, sister, aunt, or other
relatives. You may have been lovingly coerced into
accepting a very subordinate or cuckold role in a
relationship with the woman you love. If this is your
situation, write and tell me all about it. Maybe my
advice can help you make a decision, or offer you
solace for a decision you've already made, or one that
was made for you.

Well, let's turn to today's case. It's a little out
of the ordinary. I call it:

"A Woman Who Loves Men"

Dear Mother Debbie,

I know you usually do not answer letters from women,
but I just don't know where else to turn. I have
thought and thought about this and I am really
confused. Charles and I married three years ago now
and I really love him. Some people would say we are
perfect for each other. Although it looks like
Charles will never make partner at the law firm where
he works, we certainly don't lack for money thanks to
a very large trust fund left by Charles's grandfather.

Some women call me Charles's "trophy wife" behind my
back and titter about the difference in our ages, but
I know they are just jealous of me. Charles bought us
a very nice house in Potomac and he loves buying me
jewelry and pretty clothes. I love the way I look in
short skirts, high heels and slinky blouses. I'm a
petite blonde and some my gossipy neighbors say I'm
quite a "handful." I'm not sure exactly what that
means; certainly they aren't talking about my D cup
titties, which are much more than a handful.

I love to dance and with the hot clothes Charles buys
me, you'd think we would be out partying all the time.
Well, we do go out frequently, but there's the first
problem. Charles is short and a little heavy and
isn't a very good dancer. Moreover when we go out, he
usually falls asleep by about 9:00 PM or after one
beer, whichever comes first. When we get to a club, I
usually find a nice quiet corner for Charles, give him
a beer, and wait a few minutes until he starts to nod.
If it looks like he is having trouble getting off to
sleep, I help him get off by playing with his precious
little weenie until he makes a mess in his pants.
That always does the trick. Thereafter, I spend the
night in the arms of a series of young men who can
whirl me and twirl me and make my little skirts fly up
to show off my pretty panties, when I wear them, or my
prettier pussy when I don't.

And that brings me to the first dilemma: Antonio. I
love to dance with Antonio. I met him in a downtown
Latin club a month or so ago and I can't get enough of
him. He is so tall, and trim. His curly raven locks
glisten in the reflected strobe lights of our favorite
boits. When I know I'm going to meet Antonio, and
that's just about every time I have Charles take me
dancing nowadays, I definitely leave the panties at
home. Antonio also likes me to wear the highest heel,
thinnest strap, open-toe sandals possible, which
Charles gladly buys for me. At Antonio's suggestion
I've started shaving my pussy. He says people like to
see how wet I get whenever I'm around him. He loves
showing me off and I love being shown off by such a
hunk. He excites me so much when we salsa or merenge
that when her folds me into his arms during a slow
dance, I come all over the bulge in his tight pants
pressed against my cunny. Finally around 3:00 or 4:00
AM before I reluctantly awaken Charles to take me
home, Antonio sits me in a dark corner and I let him
finger me to orgasm after orgasm. I think I'm in love
with Antonio.

But I love Charles, too, and there is a lot more to
life than dancing and partying. Charles's firm is an
important contributor to local cultural institutions:
museums, universities and the like. Naturally we get
invited to lots of lectures, private readings, author
receptions and that kind of thing. I really enjoy
these events because I kept up my reading after high
school and can hold my on talking books, or drama, or
public affairs. Poor Charles has trouble following
this kind of conversation and soon gets bored and
sleepy. Generally a glass of white wine is just as
good as beer for getting him drowsy, so that and a
little wank will have him snoozing peacefully in some
out-of-the-way place while I titter and repartee.

And that brings me to my second dilemma: Rutherford.
As you might guess, he's English. He's the book
reviewer for the "Post" and teaches modern history at
Georgetown, so he gets invited to all these literary
soirees. He is tall with salt and pepper hair, a thin
mustache, and a bow tie, his trademark. Even if I
didn't understand what he was talking about, I could
listen to that rich Oxbridgian accent for hours. He
is so witty and charming that women flock around him,
but their husbands don't allow too much of that. I'm
luckier, so more often than not, at the end of an
evening I'm left with Rutherford, listening to him
hold forth on something terribly intellectual. His
brilliance excites me and he knows it. When we are
alone and he sees how wound up I am, the dear will
interrupt himself and fish out his lovely thick cock.
He lets me suck it while he continues to expound some
pet idea, but usually not for very long. I can have
him filling my mouth with his delicious cream in
minutes. And then - I love his English sense of fair
play - Rutherford will throw up my skirt, bury his
face in my puss, and lick and eat me to a series of
explosive orgasms. It's the mustache rubbing against
my clit that does it! I think I'm in love with

But I love Charles, too, and there is more to life
than dancing and talkie cultural events. We love
going to concerts at the Kennedy Center. Music
thrills me. It doesn't matter whether it's Bhrams or
Mahler. I respond very physically to the power of a
full concert orchestra especially when Andre is
conducting. He's my third dilemma.

Andre is Thai and when I see him on the podium in his
adorable little penguin suit, his lithe body moving
with the music, I get so wet. When Andre is leading
the orchestra, I definitely DO wear panties, having
learned the hard way, ruining several gowns and the
upholstery of more than one seat in the Concert Hall.

As you can probably guess by now, Charles, wank or no
wank, is snoring before Andre has turned the first
page of the score. Fortunately, they turn the lights
down quite low and the music of the orchestra covers
up my squeals as I finger myself while watching my
divine Andre. By the end of the concert I have
usually soaked a maxi-pad.

Then I have to rush backstage to show Andre how much I
enjoyed his music. We've become quite good friends
and he always invites me back to his dressing room. I
know it's a cliche, with Andre being a musician and
all, but he really is the most sensitive and caring
man. I can snuggle up against him and he will listen
to me for hours telling him things, little problems,
girl talk, you know. When I leave, I feel so much
better for having talked to Andre. Of course in part
that's because he IS a maestro with the thick end of
that baton which he uses in my eager little box to
make me climax again and again. I think I'm in love
with Andre.

But I love Charles, too, and there is more to life
than social events. Charles has to earn a living or
at least go through the motions, and I have a life,
too. I make sure the household help are on their
toes, shop, and keep myself looking good for Charles
-- and Antonio, and Rutherford and Andre. I go to the
gym three times a week, but what has helped me most is
Leroy: another dilemma.

Leroy has to be one of the biggest, most virile men
I've ever seen: Michael Jordan, but blacker. He's
into bodybuilding and is his ever built! His abs,
pects, and delts are adamantine. He has become my
personal trainer and does he know how to give me a
workout! He warms me up with the hardest, longest,
most talented tongue I've ever had in my snatch.
(Sorry, Rutherford!). When I am thoroughly
incoherent, he pins me on my back and has me point my
heels (six inch spikes) at the ceiling while he drills
me for twenty minutes or more. He says it's good for
my gluteals. Then we work on my abdominals by him
laying me face down with my butt in the air and Leroy
pounding my grateful pussy from behind. Finally he
lets me relax on a table with my knees bent wide apart
while he finishes me off, filling the extra large
condom I make him wear while I exercise my vocal
cords. I think I'm in love with Leroy.

But I love Charles, too and that's why I'm taking so
long, Mother Debbie. I wanted you to understand the
problem I face. You see, I'm almost nineteen now and
I am really getting anxious to start having babies.
Mom is on my back, too; she thinks there is something
wrong with me. My little sister Shannon has three now
(Daddy, her algebra teacher, and the twelve year old
she baby-sits). Several of Mom friends thought she
looked so sexy fattening up with her son's baby, they
let that scamp Josh put them back in maternity
dresses, too. Even little Sherry persuaded the same
nice black boy who had knocked up their sixth grade
teacher, to make her pregnant, too.

I went to for an examination with a sample of Charles
sperm (painstakingly collected by three hand jobs over
six days!) to find out if we could have children. "If
I were as fertile as you are," she laughed, "I'd be
careful not sit too close to anyone on the Metro or
you'll be having triplets." She noticed me looking at
her own prominent belly "A well-hung orderly," she
explained. "On the other hand, if Charles's baby
juice is all you have to work with, you could take a
job as poster girl for Planned Parenthood."

Now I really love Charles and I think he will be a
wonderful daddy for my babies, able to help me take
good care of a clutch of little ones, but it looks
like I will have to get one of the other men I love to
be their father. But which one should I choose to
give me the big belly I crave? I love the grace and
stunning good looks of Antonio; he would make me such
a beautiful baby. But I love the brilliance of
Rutherford's mind; our child would be a genius. And
with the sweetness of Andre, we would have the most
adorable, loving little boy or girl. Yet I love the
way Leroy fucks me stupid; he would have me in the
maternity ward WEKS before any of the others. You see
my problem, Mother Debbie. How do I go about

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