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He does not take her, as so many men have thoughtlessly done before, enfolding her in their strong embraces to lead her towards those inevitably rough and passionate ends. The old man does not even react, really, merely recoils into himself, as if he knows she is not just a treasure to be drawn freely from the earth. Beneath that easily offered gleam is a hidden pitfall, the gentle caress of her mouth against his flesh, the disguised edge of a dagger. With a groan of frustrated desire, for the wanton sensation of flesh upon flesh, and thereafter the flight of her lover from her unfulfilled desire for more than just the usual flavors of passion, the wench feels anger rise within her, sudden and hot. A vampire, or black widow, depending on how one viewed her, the witch’s lusts were entwined, bound together as tightly as a tree outgrowing the strangling bounds of vines, twisting through its crooked boughs, choking away the verdant leaves. Her bites, once caresses of beguiling tenderness, become unloving, their fierce pressure relenting only when she recoils away from him with a snarl, stomping off several meters with a sharp, mare’s squeal of displeasure. Rounding about suddenly, her flyaway hair caught by the wild wind of her pivot, she stands in place, and unleashes a ferocious peel of snarling giggles. "So tender, your sudden coyness!" she mocks, her fleshy hips suddenly curving about from behind her, the silky strands of her tail lifted in a high arc, and her crown angling upon a most seductively arced neck; a glint of amusement shines within her eyes as she cranes her head aside, glancing towards his aged manhood in an obvious way for emphasis, "your tongue must be the only one fit for acting." |
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@Albrecht
Feel free to attack her with physical or magical violence at your own risk. ;D
