Sunspire Mountains all the butterflies have turned to vultures in my stomach

here was a boy ready to conquer a woman, clambering upon her back with his excitement and determination trussed up and made clear by the huffing and puffing panted hotly against her ear, about to be usurped by the flaccidity of his own manhood. 

his grunted murmur of fille facile made her arch her spine into the incurve of his underbody, but,

she really should have specified that he say it after he'd found his flow, in the the heat of the moment, la petite mort ... ja feel? but then again, this was riley we're talking about. he'd cashed the check to her climax before his battleship even passed into international waters.

still, she raised her back against him like a cat and abided his struggle with listless patience as he labored atop her. regardless, after a while of not feeling any arrival at her port of call, she grew frustrated. he wasn't penetrating anything except her waning tolerance; esme could feel the the rigid lieutenant salute once and then his ensuing dishonorable discharge as riley pestled her rump with his useless loins.

unaware that the pain from his wounds was what had given him a case of whiskey dick, she huffed an offended breath. he went limp on her! on her! the bastard little turtle head had retreated back into its shell! ON HER! he'd pleaded for this, and now he was getting cold feet? esme pinned her back her ears crossly. "you are truly the softest of maidens! TRULY! what's going on back there, sir?! there's no open sesame required!" she hissed, shifting under his weight and thrusting her sex back against the sword's sheathed scabbard.