Command of the Wolf
His heights coiled in a caress against my jerremy.
I gaped, as the primitive groove of “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones boomed from the beamed roof and the creepy butted stone wolves sang out Satan’s boasting with disturbing enthusiasm. At the same time, my resident angel, Anthony, bopped to the music, also naked (and boy, was Isabella right in calling him a long pink drink of deliciousness), when his fairy tale hair swung side to side just like his far too perfect penis. He’d lost his sweet shyness, maybe because I hadn’t been here. Also, any awareness of irony.
Hot Chapters