Stacy Martin, nymphomaniac

It's okay.

Please don't.

I'd leave you with the horny as hell.

But you wouldn't keep me alone.

Please don't.

Wow.

Can I tell you something?

Sure.

Sure?

Yeah.

Yeah, sure.

It might not be important to you, but it is to me.

It is to me.

I've never had an orgasm before.

Really?

You're my first one.

You don't know how happy that makes me.

I love you.

The men, I forbade them to touch my body with their hands.

And soon, as I was having sex with seven or eight men every night at the time,

scheduling was tricky, and they all had to have precise appointments.

It's hard to say why I'm choosing to talk about F, but he was reassuring,

and he knew exactly what I wanted when we had sex.

No, I'd go even further and say that there was a kind of telepathy going on when we had sex.

Without words, he knew exactly what I wanted, where he should touch me, and what he should do.

The most sacred goal for F was my orgasm.

What?

And then the swans answered in the same voice.

And granted him privileges none of the others received.

F was the base voice, monotone, predictable and ritualistic, no doubt about it.

...