She pushed back and tossed her freckle-dusted leg over the chair's arm, dangling a Gucci off her stocking-less toes. The hip-length, crimson kimono she wore retreated, revealing a neat, rust-colored pubic triangle.

I'll be damned-a real redhead!

She arose, languidly, and the kimono's tie slipped away, baring her abdomen.

No scars or stretch marks, after all. Understatement--I like that.

The wrap slid to her elbows. Her breasts were displayed in a Cosmetic Blush Bali Enchantress-just enough lace over mesh to reveal her wide areolas and, again, those magnificent, caramel nipples.

Just a soupcon of fantasy. Nice touch.

She approached, hands on hips.

"Your call."

"Oh--you mean rules?"

"Yes; you opened, so you get to call it. Domestic or international?"

He searched her face in vain for any hint of predisposition. "Domestic."

There it was. No meditative Tantric preliminaries, no Kama Sutra contortioning. Regulation foreplay-give or take-and straight-up coitus. Strength and stamina over sensitivity.

She retrieved the cognac and handed him one.

"A toast," she said. "To the contest."

"The contest."

Hers disappeared in a gulp, as if a challenge. He stared, took a healthy draught, and set the snifters down.

Still expressionless, she knelt on the bed, unhooked and shed her bra, and pivoted, hands on thighs. He fished for a condom and threw it on the night table, then stripped to his RIPS Coutoure Mesh Briefs (black only), a bit too snug for everyday wear. He faced her.

She lunged.

Oh, no you don't! Deftly, he gripped behind her knees and flipped her on her back. Before she could react, he elevated her hips, clamped his fingers on her buttocks and buried his face in her pubic mound. Once secured, he slid his hands up her sides and began caressing her breasts and teasing her nipples with his fingertips, as he lapped furiously at her labia and clitoris. She writhed and clawed at losing the advantage but couldn't reach him. He worked methodically, driving a wedge of pleasure into her resolve. When he sensed that her pelvic cycling had taken firmer hold of her, he moved around her thigh so he could massage her G-spot and rectum while continuing his lingual stimulation. At that, she hooked a thumb in his garment and tore it away.

"You're not the biggest, are you?" she gasped. "And circumcised!"

I thought so. First, the direct approach-no acute visual or mental stimulation. Then alcohol. Now insults. He'd constructed a theory that she had tried to arrange things to make him last longer than he otherwise would--maybe to use him as a mere tune-up, for a showdown with a younger competitor. Now she was behind, and panicky.

"Time out!" He tore open the packet and sheathed his weapon. Time to reverse field.

He surprised her again by rolling onto his back and pulling her onto him, which forced her on the offensive. She oscillated slowly, almost reluctantly, and rode forward on him to reduce her stimulation level. Delay of game! Bracing her hips, he rocked upward until he felt his feet hit the floor. He whirled, dropped her on her back and clamped her thighs tight against his chest. He leaned onto her to assure maximum glans and shaft contact, grinding and thrusting confidently. He watched her eyes widen, then saw a final determination take over her face. S he set her jaw and Kegeled him fiercely.

WOW! Now, for an instant, he was taken aback--and impressed. The Abyssinian Milkmaid Maneuver. Good thing I remembered the desensitizing cream. Age and treachery beat youth and inexperience every time, baby!

It wasn't working for her, and the pace of her breathing told him she was close.

He's at the 15… the 10…the 5…

She grasped at the sheets and shrieked.

Touchdown!