He was grunting, he was grunting, he was grunting, he was grunting, he w- oh! No. No more grunts. Now he was definitely turding himself.
She was peeling and chopping parsnips at a stupendous rate, already sitting by a pile way too big for all of them to eat, and still doing more, and more, and more. Still, at least it took her mind off the ferocious rectal pounding she’d taken the night before, which had left her severely ruptured and two hundred florins worse off, the gigolo having insisted on a higher fee than usual because the age difference was greater than eighty years.