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

it was a pitiful display, and she was the rakehelly succubus tickling his chin, whiteknuckling the satin sheets of his desperation with every intention of ruination. a debauched replica of her innocence ravaged, with the roles in reverse—

a bodily memory stole through her and she ached, arching her back as psychogenic pain lashed against her like a scorching, whitehot scimitar.

"i don't want it! stop! it hurts! you're hurting me!"
"should have supped les bouteille de sommeil, eh, you'll remember next time, mon petite putain"
"mommy—"

coolly, playing it off as a sensual panoply of lust, esme milled 'round riley. attempting to stir his loins, she brushed her shoulder adamantly against the erogenous zones of his flanks while her plume caressed the back of his legs, fluttering dangerously near mother nature’s scythe. "he wants, but he doesn't prove it, mm," she tsked, touching her nose to the back of his ear strewing warm breath that might tickle, or titillate.

"stop wasting my time and prove what you want, sylph."