Firestone Hot Springs Wild Childs, Lookin' Good

Water formed in her mouth, and the dilation of her eyes could have frothed. “Ah! Ah!” The bag hit the ground, and she was soon in front of him, tongue swiping over the cloth of hide.

“Machi is a good chef,” a rich coat of blood subtly washed over her tongue. All the while, staring into the rich ivory of his eyes with an intense stare. “She is sure it to be good.” Behind him again then, resting. Machi would make it good.

Failure, a very far and few world for the fellahin. Failure, perhaps a broken world for the fellahin. And for the yaret, a beautiful land of white roses. Trickled from her mouth, a silent laughter as her nose was tickled.

Feline, she stood, bounding with each sway to his step, falling into place with his highs, with his lows. Her spine curved, bended, stretched, and when it would lock to his sides, he would move away once more. A pull and give, and she would follow the moth of his flame. Often times, swept to his front, nudging the underside of his chin with her nose, a clip of her teeth in playful goads, before falling behind again.

“Here?” Machiavelli stumbled backwards, and from behind, she lurked forward with kyanite eyes slipping over his shoulder. The remnants of the bag, dumped into the pool.

The angel-man turned, curling around her frame as her nose chased his features. Gone, he was, slipping away in a devils laughter. The other devil laughed back. Chasing the snake of his tail, soon upon the ground in a dive. “Shhhh,” she mimicked. And the accomplice followed.

“Show, before they come,” her nose pushed him forward. Faster, faster! A play, and a taunt, and still a title he then was crowned, “King.”