Rough sex is a guarantee that a girl won’t cheat at a party

Title: “Rocking the Party: Rough Sex and Fidelity”

In today’s fast-paced, hook-up culture, it’s often a challenge to keep a girl’s head clear and her wandering eyes focused on you. But what if there was a tried-and-true method, a secret weapon if you will, that could ensure your lady won’t be tempted to stray at the next wild bash? Experts agree, the key lies in earth-shattering sessions of rough sex prior to the party. Here’s why:

Imagine this – your girl, let’s call her Logan, is a gorgeous redhead with an unquenchable thirst for skinsuits. She’s got a petite frame, but her tits and ass are like two ripe cantaloupes, perfect and juicy. Size queens everywhere envelope their salivas at the mere mention of her name.

She’s your fiancée, a gem in a market full of diamonds, but you both like to keep things fresh by attending raucous parties thrown by your bros. This is where most men make the mistake – they neglect to fuck their baby mama proper before the shindig, thinking it’ll buoy her faithfulness. But you, you’re smarter than that.

A few days before the elongated-night of boozing and debauchery, you pull Logan into your bedroom, your manhood a steel rod in your pants. Her eyes shine with equal parts mischief and lust.

“Time for your workout,” you growl, pulling her tight against you. Your hands roughly grope her tits, drawing whimpering moans from between her lips.

That’s right, you’re going to break her into the kind of pieces that take a week to put back together. You rip off her shirt, sending buttons flying in every which direction. You’ve seen her in lingerie before, but watching those puppies bounce free of their lace prison never fails to unhinge your jaw.

As if on cue, Logan pounces, a feline grin spreading across her pretty face as she pushes you onto the bed. She straddles your waist, grinding against your erection. Fuck, she smells good, like a sun-warmed peach. You palm her tits, tweaking the stiff peaks, drawing more of those whorish cries you adore.

Getting into the spirit, she shimmies down your body until her face is even with your crotch. There’s a split second where you wonder if she’ll tease you, but those thoughts dissolve into nothingness when her lips wrap around your shaft and her tongue starts to swirl. Logan isn’t gentle, never is, which means you get a throat full of cock in record time.

She’s an expert cock sucker, bobbing up and down like the pros on PornHub while her tits sway hypnotically. You grip her hair, trying like hell not to push her face into your groin. As much as you’re enjoying the view, you’ve got plans for other holes.

Another minute and she’s bouncing on your lap, that succulent pink pussy swallowing you to the hilt. Your eyes drift shut, the sensation of her clenching slick walls driving you insane. She’s perfection incarnate, a skilled little fuck doll molded just right for your manhood.

Trying to give your balls a rest for later, you flip her onto her stomach and bury your face between her legs. You tongue her pussy like a man possessed, while your fingers drum her clit until she’s trembling and incoherent. Then you’re slamming into her from behind, the force rocking her upper body.

Doggy style is her Kryptonite, and minutes later, she’s screaming, back bowed as her cunt spasms around you. A few more thrusts and you’re painting her walls, filling her womb to capacity. You collapse onto the bed, pulling her with you, both of you covered in a sheen of sweat.

While you were fucking the ever living daylights out of Logan, her mind went blank. Thoughts of other men? Forget about it. When you’re done with her, she’s left gaping, her legs too wobbly for walking, and her mind too fuzzy for calculating.

That’s why you’re not worried about the party later. Sure, there might be dicks frolicking in the hot tub, or couples getting down on the couch. And ain’t a man alive who won’t sneak a peek at Logan’s assets when she bends over to spear a veggie skewer. But treachery? Nah man, her brain is too boneless to conjure such thoughts.

You’d have to guess that’s why, when it’s time to leave, Logan slides into the passenger seat wearing a barely-there dress. A dress made of fuck me fabric that leaves nothing to the imagination. As you drive, you watch her absently rub her thighs together, a habit she developed post-sex, one that has you smiling knowingly while the other guys at the party only smirk.

Hours later, with drinks in hand, you scan the crowd, taking stock of the talent. Wide hips, skimpy shorts, and a smorgasbord of hard nipples greet your gaze. You allow yourself to enjoy the visuals, but you know you’re a one girl man, and that girl is currently grinding with the birthday boy to “Summer of 69”.

You grab your beer, ready to shoot the shit with your homies, when you notice a trendy weasel approach Logan. He twirls a finger in her hair and leans into her ear to whisper something. And you know you should intervene, plant your flag, lay claim to the 1800 square feet that is Logan. But then something contradictory occurs to you – she’d just had the dickolas, so she’s momentarily untrustworthy.

You set your beer down and start towards the dance floor, when Logan does something wholly unexpected. Instead of engaging with the weasel, she turns, reaches up, and pulls him down by a fistful of hair for a blistering kiss. The kind of kiss that’s open, languid, and full of tongue.

The sudden loud whoop you let out arthritis their view of your lady’s prize asset. The weasel immediately recoils and you breathe a little easier. Because the truth is a simple equation – rough sex + clit drenched mindstate = celibate girlfriend.

And so Logan spends the rest of the party shadowing you, your arms always wrapped around her. As the sun rises, you return home, her sleeping soundly on the passenger seat. There will be weasels, always weasels. But thanks to an overhaul in her brain matter and a cock mashed into her lady bits, you’ve bought yourself peace of mind.

Here, rough sex isn’t just a hobby; it’s a guarantee that your girl won’t cheat. It’s the key to the kingdom, the sword of Damocles, the wild card in a deck of cheating hearts. A good roughing lands a man on top, his girl planted firmly beneath him, and inside her, where the weasels can’t reach them.