Lion Head Mesa needy boy speeding off in a limo stretch

had zaahira any clue what he had said to her, she would have roasted him over a fire right then and there, or perhaps stoned him. thankfully, however, she is oblivious; she only watches him, composed and measured, as he squirms deliciously.
hal tatahadath alearabiatu? she asks then, her accent worn away by the red sands. do you understand what i am saying to you at all?
how pathetic, she thinks. but one way or another, he will talk.
you are afraid, she gestures with a muscled limb to his jagged posture, the stiffness of his muscles. i am not here to harm you, boy. pharaoh is not a fan of needless bloodshed, and i abide by her wishes, if nothing else.
she moves now to stand, to slink close to his flank, arched catlike as she lowers herself down beside him. one foreleg drapes over the other while she turns to expose the curve of her belly, her slender hips. men are simple creatures. perhaps he will respond better to the unimposing bloom of femininity. is there anything i can do to make you feel more comfortable?