Well, it turns out I didn't really have to worry about my growing sex obsession - it has all but drained away after a mere half an hour with the Professor.
As is often the case when I haven't seen him for a while, my excitement was such that it seemed to override all mental function, resulting in an utter lack of self-consciousness rendering me incapable of executing any of the contrived guiles I had devised in my mind for our next encounter, and also, unfortunately, a startling dearth of distinct memories (well, it isn't really that startling to me any more, of course).
However, I do remember thinking, after the Professor had pumped me full of come (that being as always an exceptionally memorable event), that a man's orgasm seems to be so much more remarkable than a woman's. The build-up, when I feel him swelling harder and somehow tighter and tenser inside me, seeming almost to transmit a booster shot of arousal and excitement to me through my walls of my pussy, and then the pause, as he hovers on the edge of coming, which this time seemed to last even longer than usual (to the point where I was unsure if it would really even happen), and then the burst of release, flooding me and filling me with waves of sensual pleasure.
But then maybe it's just that my orgasms don't seem to be as distinct during sex as they can be from oral or manual stimulation, though they can often be more pleasurable as the after-effects last longer - I've never felt like I've been drugged through oral or manual stimulation alone. Though in my younger days I was, in fact, a "femme fontaine" - yes, a squirter - but I learned how to control that involuntary reflex action after much embarrassment (not that any of my male partners ever contributed to this embarrassment - well, at least Magic didn't, being the only one of the two people who'd ever made me come, at that point in time, to have that particular effect on me).
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