Phoenix Maplewood bad moon rising

He is predictable. He has a type and she fits it quite well — small, young, likely virgins.  Vocal.  His elbows sit comfortably at the crook of her waist and it is there he feels like he could break her beneath him.  His tongue works over her body after they have both been spent.  He touches the crook of her jaw, lingers in the cotton-candy strands of fur at the back of her ears.

As his swelling decreases and he exits her finally, he maintains his firm grip on her and gently he lowers them both to the ground, where he continues to encompass her with his spiderlike legs and touch his nose to her that he might take in her scent.