Tug harder on the pineapple
From Create Your Own Story
Cogency flows towards your hands; they flex with the indelible Saharan lucidity that mitigates caliginous intentions. They are blazing with great intensity, and avoid mistakes with phantasmal opposition. Carefully and surgically, you apply friction to your hands, meld them betwixt each other in sanguine tone and in velocity of their phasing and non-transitory, salubrious mirth. Heat encompasses them; they're thoroughly kneaded together as you now contain the unmistakable inkling that pushes forth to expunge this rub.
Not particularly unorthodox is the woman's articulation. She tilts her head and observes a distant orchard inconclusively while enquiring: "Do you usually do this to people?", she utters forth this with booming intensity and shoots a varying expression of disenchantment and disgust at you to navigate to a response. She doesn't laugh afterwards, nor does she smile, but her expression grows slightly less rugged. Her hips reel and ebb aloft, never quite staying still.
"I haven't seen as many pineapples this year - I assumed that they needed to copulate so that we can have more pineapples"; you infer her this.
"Very strange! You're such a weird and strange person!"; it appears to be a discourse on you. It is this explicit detail she wields on the subject of you as a civil agent.
You tug and wrest and jaunt and tilt and flaunt the pineapple leaves outwards; you counter each extreme angle of displacement with another. The woman emits a eldritch, defeated moan from her chest and groans in a shivery, effervescent pitch as she clenches her fists. Her will to move defeats compartments adjacent to it wildly; any direction possible is a source of locomotion as the woman micturates the liberty historically tuning them; Her fingers wither outwards as she collides the outer skin of her groin. Your wresting of her pineapple causes it to frustrate and shake violently as the acridity of the crimson fresh disperses angstrom by angstrom of the fructose with blind mitigation.
Desperation flows from the woman's shivering mouth to not submit to the haggard fluency of this abrasive trite absolutely abolishes the construction of her pussy. She stays absolutely silent, with a distant spurning gaze on her face. Tension absconds from the face in a manner copacetic with the relief.
It eventually reaches a less constricted point. The woman glows with a respiratory intention and colour floods back to her face. Though she is breathing in prehistoric gulps of air: you are not cognizant of her moving. She aesthetic portrays that of sleep. Her expression has grown phlegmatic, almost peaceful. You rest the pineapple on the concrete summit.
Do you:
- Strip her by virtue of her clothes
- Carry her to your home, with your modest certainty that she's dormant
- Stick the banana in her vagina, close it, and walk away
| Status | ||
| Health | Horny | Location: |
| MP | 0 | |
| Level | 1 | |
