The informant is looking for this type of a lady,I won’t qualify but maybe you will.It’s not so easy to be his kind of girl…..

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So I’ve always known I’d never date a girl of Adele’s character. You know Adele, right? This soulful singer whose every album makes you cry and every song makes you want to commit suicide? Yeah, her. I swore I’d never date someone of her kind, majorly because I don’t want to come home from work and find my woman crying at the writing desk, leaving me with the entire responsibility of having to calm her down from a song she just wrote, and you don’t know how weird it feels when she writes a song about how bad her guy treats her, yet you do everything to make her feel queen-ish. Then it dawns on you that you’re probably not the one she’s talking about, but you been dating for three years! (So she been cheating?)
I don’t want such awkwardness, because how do I know it’s just a song? How do I know she’s not talking about a true experience, with how convincing she gets in her songs? And if she can convince the whole world she dated a monster, maybe she just lied to me that we are dating…(shit! Did it have to go that far?)
I want a lady, a passionate lady, the kind that I get home in the evening and she just jumps on me like I just made it outta some Al-Qaeda bombing, wrap her legs on my waist and her hands on my neck. Somehow I find a way to drop my laptop bag and my coat on the couch without having her leave this sacred place she has planted herself, and with her on me, we go straight to the bathroom for a quickie, (I mean a quick shower) accompanied of course by some steaming romp. Since I am that guy, I get her real turnt for the occasion then carry her to our master en suite, drop her on the bed like Jesus dropped our sins on the cross and then crawl on her like a creepy animal. The yearning is throbbing I know and the desire is killing her just as much as me, but who am I to rush stuff? I am TheInformant, I don’t rush. I take my time like some sadistic torturer in Russia, then I let my tongue do the walking, from the thighs up. Course this is some mind magic I learnt, and the effect never comes short.
I let the walker take rounds around the land of the living, then disappear suddenly, reappear at the belly button, make some rounds there. By this time, she’s lifted her abdomen in some weird angle, which gets me access to everything I need. My head is throbbing, the blood rushing in my veins hot and fast straight to the monster underneath, giving one hell of a bulge. Hopefully she doesn’t have long nails or my back will have a tale to tell. 
When all the lubrication has been done and the yearning to much to hold in, I immerse the monster into the oil well, and the breath skipping her lungs is incredible. I make my first thrusts slow and deep and with momentum comes speed, the kind she can’t stand, so she makes all those noises you know well about, but that won’t destruct me from this very crucially important task. Not even a house on fire would.
We change positions a couple times and the pleasure blows our minds before the emissions come at jet speed, marking the end of the home coming session. Of course more action is coming, but after this very delicious meal she prepared, and she knows it’s going to be night of nights.
That is the kind of lady the informant wants, not the Adele type.


2 thoughts on “MY KIND OF GIRL

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