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I actually have a good many dollars, but I liked eating at a low-end diner. Frankly, I liked the food better. Nothing beats the biscuits and gravy, friend chicken, and sloppy Joes this place makes.

There was this one waitress who was really sending me. I mean, she’s tall, like 5’10” and has really long, sleek legs. She wore short shorts – that’s the kind of diner it is – showing her legs off even more. She must know the effect she had on guys. She always served me with a smile.

I’d been eating there for three years, ever since my divorce. I got married too young and I was an idiot, but that’s another story.

I was probably averaging two meals a day at the diner.

In time, this waitress, Marie, and I started conversing. She found out that I’m an investment banker, working exclusively with my extended family’s own account. I was reluctant to tell her, because when people find out my financial situation, they can get all weird. Like trying to sell me stuff, or wanting me to invest in their crazy business ideas.

Sometimes, when things were slow, she’d sit down opposite me and talk a while. Frank, the owner of the diner, didn’t seem to care.

The day came when I asked her out. Her answer was not what I expected. Maybe I’m too full of myself or something, but I was sure she’d say, “Yes.” Or at least tell me she had a boyfriend.

“I can’t,” she said. She went on to explain that due to our relative financial positions, she’d feel like she’d be tempted to take advantage of me.

I told her I was very relieved to hear her say that. The honesty, you know. Nevertheless, we didn’t go on a date until months later.

It was a nice date, in a fancy restaurant, which made her slightly uncomfortable. Still, we had a brilliant conversation about nothing in particular, and I could see she was enjoying my company. She was brilliant with repartee, which I really liked.

As the place was closing, and we were the last ones there, she told me, “I don’t want you to be disappointed…”

‘Oh, no, here it comes,’ I thought, assuming she was going to give me the ‘like you like a brother, don’t want sex’ speech.

“I’m a nymphomaniac.”

I was at a total loss for words.

She continued, “It’s painful for me to tell you this, but I think you ought to know. I’m not a nympho in the classic sense. I don’t like fucking.”

Now I was confused.

“I just love orgasms. I can have them over and over again. So, here’s the thing, I want a guy who would enjoy playing with my clit and my tits, and my asshole. It could be with your tongue, or your fingers, or with various toys.”

I was still speechless. I have to admit that all I could do in that moment was to stare at her dumbfounded. I did notice that she said ‘your’ pretty much indicating she truly meant me, not some generic idea of a guy.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong…” she said. “I love penis. As much as you do for me, I’d love to do for you, too.”

Finally, my voice returned, although in a whisper. I was frankly shocked that she was willing to confide that to me, and not only that, but in a public restaurant. I was embarrassed that even though the restaurant was now empty, the kitchen staff may have overheard her. I answered, “I can’t believe this. You are a woman after my own heart. I just love tongue, finger and toy stuff. I’ve never been much of a fucker….”

She and I laughed at the literal use of the term.

We got to my place. She looked around, admiring the spaciousness, the real wood, the stonework. It didn’t take long before we were naked and kissing our heads off on my bed. James, my valet came in, took one look, smiled, and quickly left without saying a word. It wasn’t the first time he saw me naked. He’d walked in on me masturbating a number of times. No big deal. But this was the first time with a girl. Marie was momentarily freaked out, then it seemed that him seeing her like that made her twice as horny, if that was even possible.

Soon enough, we got down to business. First she masturbated me for ten solid minutes. She’s a real expert. She got me to the brink of coming like four times.

Then I did her, with my tongue, bringing her tasty, slightly salty pussy to complete, crashing orgasms like ten times. I didn’t even realize a girl could do that so many times in a row.

We established a rhythm that lives with us to this day: It’s approximately ten minutes for her, then ten minutes for me, and we trade back and forth like that for an hour or two.

Oh yes, we have had conventional sex, our two kids are proof enough of that, but that’s not really our thing. Weird, I know, but there’s nothing wrong with it, right?

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