The wyvern’s talons tore through her bodice, missing her vital organs by an inch. Surely the next swipe would be the death of her. Her lacey covering fell open, exposing her bosom, and although that tremendous sight would not lift her guards’ spirits enough to turn the battle, it did draw forth a great cry of approval from both sides. Still, though – the wyvern! Its great claw was raised as though to swipe down and through her, but the beast stayed for a moment, transfixed by those sumptuous knockers, and now it lost the momentum and was run through from four directions, ‘til it tottered and stumbled and, finally, fell to the ground on top of one of the enemy soldiers, drenching the hapless man’s jerkin with its final ejaculation and deafening him with its orgasmic groan-cum-death rattle.
He had stumbled upon her dragline, and, little aware of the power of pheromones, found himself coyly entreated to follow it until he espied her in the distance, busily emitting a silken web from her abdominal spinneret. He began to strum the thread, and she declined even to turn and face him, instead violently shaking the web to ward him off. But he had one purpose, borne of an instinct stronger than survival, and he plunged across the quivering web toward her. He could feel that he was handling the awkwardness of his progress masterfully, and that she was becoming receptive owing to his obvious skill. He primed his pedipalps with sperm, ready to place it on a little bit of web so that she would only be waiting a second or two. He tenderly levered open the scape on her priapic outgrowth to ease open her genital aperture and grant himself access to her copulatory ducts. His issue flowed eagerly unto her seminal receptacles, there to remain while she fattened her body on flies and aphids over the following months. His task completed most satisfactorily for them both, it made more sense for him to be used as meat, and she towered over him for a moment before chomping down hard and consuming his whole cephalothorax in one bite.
This slut really knew her onions, wanking-wise.
“Detective,” came the voice behind them, soft yet resonant.
“Detective,” it repeated more insistently.
“Detectiiiiiiiive!” it burst into a roar, and the two detectives turned round in alarm. There they saw a man, his shirt heavily stained in blood.
“You’re looking for me,” he said, putting out his arms in calm submission. But he was wrong. They were looking for a woman with massive tits. All their evidence pointed to a murderer with copious melons and a fanny. They ignored him.
There was still time to scat one off all over the toilet, floor and walls before the big meeting, and that she did – and as she sniggered at the mess she’d left for the cleaner, she wondered how many others all over the world were doing the s- FLARRRPP!!!! Oh, goodness. It sounded like someone was doing the same in the very next cubicle. She flung open her door, spun and booted in their door to see. Nope, they were just having a normal poo. A bit loudly, though. She’d done hers more or less silently, and she told them so.
“Do you want stuffing?” he asked with a wink. She got his meaning, and she began to reply suggestively that she did, but no sooner had her lips and vocal chords moved just enough for her affirmative to be discernible than his thick wand of schlongmeat was free and plunging toward her oral cavity.
Oh, lovely! He’d spunked on a lot of faces before, but this one had really whipped across her, streaking the whole face diagonally from jaw to temple and leaving her grinning up at him in satisfaction and, more importantly, profound gratitude.
Other than fellwalking, they had few interests in common. She liked the Antiques Roadshow, while he found all Sunday evening television depressing. She was into cakes, whereas he ate hardly anything sweet. And she was hoping for a period of gentle courtship, whereas his explicit aim was to smash her back doors off within forty-eight hours of their first shared glance.