include_once("common_lab_header.php");
Excerpt for More Love with Mandy (A Hypersexual Diary: The Adventures of Mr. Curvy, Chapter 67) by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

This page may contain adult content. If you are under age 18, or you arrived by accident, please do not read further.

More Love with Mandy

(A Hypersexual Diary: The Adventures of Mr. Curvy, Chapter 67)

Copyright 2018 Ron Galbraith

Published by Ron Galbraith at Smashwords



Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.



Adult Content Notes and General Disclaimer

This ebook is intended for adults only, and is not suitable for readers under 18 years of age. It contains adult content and themes, including graphic descriptions of sexual activities. All activities described herein take place between fully consenting adults who are at least 18 years of age at the time such activities take place. This ebook is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, place or event is unintentional and purely coincidental. Any mention of any trademarked property is done so without the permission of the trademark holder, and is not intended to imply any endorsement of or by such trademarked property.



Table of Contents

Forward

Chapter 67: More Love with Mandy

Postscript

About Mr. Curvy

Special Bonus excerpt from Chapter 58: Kissing Sweet Clover

Connect with Ron Galbraith



Forward

Hypersexuality is considered by most mental health professionals to be a psychological disorder, in that those who are diagnosed with it typically are obsessed with sex and feel compelled to engage in frequent sexual activity. That’s me.

My name is Ron. I am a straight, white guy, by now solidly in middle age. I’m a licensed architect, and work independently, which gives me a reasonable amount of flexibility and independence, along with a decent income. I’m not rich, by any means, and I pay alimony to both of my ex-wives, but I have enough left over for some fun. I’m fit and reasonably trim- I work out almost daily and I’m careful about what I eat. I’ve been told that I’m better looking than most men my age, with a rock-hard body and sort of a rugged look, emphasized by a beard and tattoos on both arms.

I have been hypersexual my entire life, and by now, I have had sex with hundreds of women in all manner of situations. Over the course of these adventures, I’ve learned something about how to give a woman pleasure, which is heightened somewhat by a congenital curvature in my dick; when it’s hard, it curves upward at a thirty-degree angle, making it a perfect G-spot finder. An old girlfriend bestowed the name “Mr. Curvy” to it, and that name has stuck.

If anything, the pace at which I meet and have sex with girls has increased over the last few years, banging two, sometimes three new girls a week. These stories chronicle some of my more recent adventures. These are true stories; they actually happened exactly as they are described, except that the names of the women and other characters have been changed to protect their privacy.

Chapter 67: More Love with Mandy

When I started seeing Mandy, I quickly realized that she was going to be a completely different kind of experience for me. Normally, when I saw a girl, it was only about sex. I avoided emotional entanglements, and if I saw a girl more than once, it was because we clicked on a sexual level, not an emotional one. As a hypersexual, I knew that I was incapable of true intimacy, and frankly, I didn’t miss it much. I just loved to fuck as many pretty, young girls as I could. Monogamy, a steady girlfriend, a committed relationship? That was out of the question for me.

But Mandy made me start to feel differently.

Mandy was in her mid-twenties, with a slender, willowy body and an extraordinarily beautiful face, with piercing blue eyes, a perfect rosebud mouth and a softly cleft chin. She had a naturally sensual look, which she had leveraged into an impressive career as an artistic model. She had traveled around the world, appearing in numerous art publications, and she kept up a blog with hundreds of stunning photographs taken by world-famous photographers. She also was an actress, having appeared in a few minor roles in film and television.

Mandy also had acute cognitive problems. She had been diagnosed with severe dyslexia, and, I suspect, she was a little autistic as well. She had difficulty communicating- she spoke slowly, with long pauses as she organized each thought in her mind. She was slow and deliberate in all her movements, unable to perform more than one task at a time, no matter how simple. She had no concept of the passing of time, and was easily disoriented, with no sense of direction.

At the same time, she was deeply intelligent and well-read. We had many discussions on a philosophical level, revealing her many interests, about which she had thought long and profoundly. Mandy was a complicated, and fascinating, girl. And for me, there was something special about her, something that reached me deeply.

I had been seeing her for a few months, and was starting to develop feelings for her that I never had had for any of the hundreds of other women I had met before. To be sure, I still saw other girls, but what I had with Mandy was far deeper than just sex, although that part of it was incredible as well. We clicked on many levels, and I knew that I was helpless in my increasing infatuation with her.

I knew that Mandy reciprocated my feelings, but I had no idea to what degree. She always seemed to be as eager to see me as I was to see her, and when we were together, the passion of her affection was overwhelming. She had a unique way of kissing me, lingering, her mouth open, lightly biting my lower lip, and in those quiet moments the emotions that overcame me were some of the most profound I had ever experienced.

I kept on seeing other girls, of course. Part of it was the compulsive part of being hypersexual- when I was attracted to a pretty girl, which was often, I automatically switched into seduction mode, with no thought of anything other than getting her into my bed. And I was good at it. I still was banging at least one or two other girls a week on the side. Another part of it, though, was that I wanted to keep a little emotional distance- I thought that if I stayed involved other girls, even if superficially, I could avoid going too far off the emotional deep end with Mandy.

Frankly, I was afraid to let go and lose myself in my feelings for her. Mandy had been planning all along to leave New Orleans in the summer to resume her modeling career in New York, and I knew I’d be devastated when she left. I thought that seeing other girls would provide a sort of emotional damage control for me.

But Mandy drew me in like a bear to honey. We saw each other at least once a week, and it developed into a pattern. Mandy would come to my little apartment in downtown New Orleans, always frustratingly late, and we would share a little wine and talk. And then we would make love, slowly and sensually. We sometimes went out afterwards, and sometimes not- we both had active schedules, although hers always seemed to be a trainwreck of continually late and missed appointments.

I religiously checked out her modeling blog, and was dismayed on a Saturday morning to see that she had posted pictures of injuries she had sustained in a bike accident. I called her to ask her about it, and as usual, it was a long, complex conversation. By the time we hung up, she had invited me to see her new apartment, near New Orleans’ Garden District, the next day. We agreed to meet at ten in the morning, and my heart was racing by the time I hung up the phone.

That afternoon, she peppered me with texts, asking whether I preferred red or white wine, and whether I liked cheese with crackers or bread… I was stoked, ready for a sweet, intimate morning with my beautiful young lover.

I woke up around seven, got my coffee and took a shower, and a little after nine, I texted her, saying “See you soon!” She replied, wondering what the time was we had agreed to. We got that straightened out, and she asked me to pick up a cup of cappuccino on the way over.

I stopped at Rouse’s to pick up a dozen roses and some petit-fours, and then stopped again at a coffee house on Magazine Street, blending in with the hipsters. I smiled as I waited for the drinks, remembering that this was the place I had first met Mandy. I had noticed the beautiful girl with the long, wavy hair, lost in thought as she pored over a book, and I struck up a conversation. As they say, one thing led to another after that.

I got back in my car, and of course, I wound up on the wrong side of Jackson Avenue, but I eventually found her place- an old 1850s mansion in the Garden District, long ago converted into apartments. I texted that I had arrived, and there was no answer at first. It felt awkward, hanging around in front of her place carrying a bag with flowers and two steaming paper cups, but soon she texted that she was coming out to meet me. It was a few more minutes before she came out, and I leaned against a magnolia tree in front, waiting.

Eventually, I saw Mandy coming across the yard, wearing a simple green patterned dress to mid-calf, socks and no shoes. Her hair was up in braids wrapped around her head, and I smiled at her familiar knock-kneed walk. She greeted me, smiling, and remarked that the gate had been unlocked; I told her I wouldn’t have known where to go anyway.

“That’s true,” she smiled, putting her arm around my waist and hugging me. She led me around the back of the property, between the master house and the old slave quarters, our arms around each other, and she chatted as I followed her up the stairs, telling me that she had been talking to a New York photographer who wanted to come to New Orleans to shoot her. She told me that she had wanted the photographer to shoot her in her natural environment- her room; and I felt a pang of jealousy. We arrived at a door marked number 8, at the end of the original slave quarters, decorated with Mardi Gras beads hanging on the knob.

Her apartment was one fairly large room, off a short hallway created by a bathroom, and a nook for the kitchen, recently and professionally renovated with decent quality appliances and finishes. Her bed was in the corner, a small bed with wrought iron head and tailboards; a couple of chairs were placed against the bed, and a small table was against a wall by the kitchen. The room was on a corner of the building, so it had plenty of light from windows on two sides. A print of an abstract painting hung on the wall, with some photos that appeared to be of various archaeological sites in the Mediterranean. A small flat-screen TV was silently playing an old black-and white movie, and as we entered the room, Mandy bent down to carefully pick up a postcard that had fallen, leaning it against the TV. It depicted a statue of female saint, raising her hand in a benediction. Everything in the room was meticulously neat and spotlessly clean- it was a thoroughly pleasant, sunny space.

I remarked that we were probably in the former slave quarters, guessing that the main house was from about 1850.

“I think that’s right,” Mandy said, leading me into the room.

I pulled the flowers out of the bag and said, “So, these are for you, my dear,” handing them to her.

She thanked me, and I pulled out the petit-fours. “And these are for us,” I said.

“Oh, yummy!” Mandy said, and smiled. “Very festive!”

“Yes, exactly,” I agreed, handing her cappuccino to her. I sipped on my latte; and for a moment we discussed the differences between latte and café au lait.

I complimented her on the apartment, as Mandy found a vase and started to wash it with soap. She remarked that the apartment had lots of natural light.

“Good for photography,” she said, and she told me she had just gotten a camera. She put the still-soapy vase down to show me a small digital camera on her nightstand; even though it wasn’t a DSLR, it had interchangeable lenses. She remarked that she still needed to buy a charger for it, and as I watched her sure, deliberate movements, I was struck once again by her incredible beauty. She was so naturally beautiful, and so graceful in her movements, that it seemed that there was not a single aspect of her that wasn’t physically perfect.

She went back to washing out the vase, as told me that she was doing a video for an art project involving some well-known musicians, as well as respected photographers and models. Her piece was going to be silent, perhaps with sign language, and based on a poem she was writing. She described it as a dark poem, and on the surface, it was about an orgasm, but she said it was actually about addiction. The conversation led to sex addiction, and I confessed that if there was such a thing, I probably was an addict: whether or not it was technically an addiction, I certainly had sex with a lot of girls and thought about sex all the time. She told me that at different times in her life, especially when she was stressed out, she masturbated often, sometimes multiple times a day. I felt Mr. Curvy stir at the mental image of Mandy pleasuring herself.

Mandy finished washing the vase, and I started to unwrap the flowers, remarking that I was quite expert at it by now. I suggested that we cut the bottoms off the stems, and she handed me a pair of kitchen shears. She sipped her cappuccino, watching me as I worked on the flowers.

“I can see that you’ve done that before,” she said, smiling.

“Yeah,” I remarked, putting the flowers in the vase. “It’s one of my favorite things to do. Pretty flowers for a pretty lady… it only seems appropriate.”

Mandy smiled, and I bent down to kiss her. She responded sweetly, closing her eyes, her mouth open, tasting of cappuccino. “And you’re certainly a beautiful, wonderful person,” I said.

She murmured her thanks, with another kiss, and I cradled her chin in my fingers as I kissed her, and then caressed her cheek. She sighed softly, and kissed me harder, her tongue darting into my mouth, our passion rising. The kiss lingered for another moment, before it broke.

“So, tell me about your accident,” I said.

“It’s embarrassing, more than anything else,” she said, with an awkward smile.

She told me, in her halting manner, that she had been riding her bike along the streetcar tracks at St. Charles Avenue near Lee Circle, and the front wheel got caught in a transition of the pavement. She had fallen over, half her body on the bike and half off; she had been holding her phone, and the face broke in the fall.

“Wow!” I said. “That sounds awful!” I took her in my arms, hugging her, as she finished her cappuccino.

“Yeah,” She said. “I guess… I was lucky in a way. It could have been much worse. Here, let me show you!”

Mandy sat on the bed, and I joined her, sipping my latte. She pulled the hem of her long dress up to show me her scraped knee and bruises on her thighs, and then she stood, pulling the hem of her dress above her waist to show me the scrapes on her stomach.

She wasn’t wearing panties, and her slim hips and luxuriant bush were right in front of my face. I cluck-clucked sympathetically about her painful-looking road rash, half-jokingly promising to be gentle with her, but the unexpected nudity was turning me on.

She pulled her dress back down, reaching for her phone, and she told me about a friend of hers, a fellow model, who was a sailor and sailed around the Caribbean, renting out her boat to earn money while she stayed ashore for a few days in different ports. She showed me the girl’s picture, a pretty girl with a massive cast on her foot. Apparently, the girl had gotten into an accident in the Dominican Republic and injured her foot badly. A surgery by a local doctor was botched, and she had needed more surgery in the US when she returned to repair the damage; the pain was so bad that she required a morphine IV drip.

“I’m gonna go pee,” Mandy abruptly said, putting her phone down.

I sat on the bed, waiting for her. I had been feeling a little bit of pressure on my bladder as well, so when she returned, I excused myself to the bathroom for a quick piss. Like everything else in her tiny apartment, the bathroom was neatly organized and meticulously clean. To my secret relief, there was no sign of a male presence.


Purchase this book or download sample versions for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-8 show above.)