You can ramp up a woman’s ardor with a few simple “powerlust moves”. One that has never failed to generate hot hot heat beyond the usual steamy release is when I sidle up to my ladyhawke from behind, put my arms around her waist (one hand slithering to a shaded resting place in her underboob), and, as she begins to twist around to meet my intrusion, whisper in her ear “Ah ah, don’t turn around”.
Her head might swivel backward a little after that, revealing the corner of a lip-parted arousal, and I’ll reiterate, “Don’t look”. Now she’s stuck facing forward, maybe over the kitchen sink noticing tree leaves ripen in the summersun through the window, engulfed by my body while my patriarchy presses into her behind. I lift her dress, or unzip and yank down her pants, and explore like a White colonialist of old. All the time she is yielding to my loving molestation, her back is to me; she never locks eyes. This combination of male entitlement, commanding presence, and her sensual vulnerability is lethal to the female limbic system, dynamiting her dendritic fuses in a volcanic shower of molten gash-ash.
Male dominance is the female rationalization hamster killer. No woman can resist. No man should underestimate the allure of his controlled dominance to women. The Powerlust Moves are about projecting dominance through aesthetic, physicality, and word. Set the romantic scene, invade her personal space, and issue the command. The pussy has been waiting to submit for too long.