Post by SammieSinclair on May 10, 2015 21:45:50 GMT
There was a hint of familiarity about the body that lay upon the floor, the barest sliver of illumination casting more shadows than there was light, a thousand shades of black blanketing the fallen warrior in the deepest hues of darkness. She was strong, to be sure, the low light tracing the lines of her sculptured shoulders, slumped and shuddering, fallen and defeated, the hint of her quite moans almost surrendering her identity... tantalisingly almost...
“I grow weary,” Eisenberg’s silky, slithering tone pierced the pervading silence as the night parted, sliding about the curvaceous carnivore as she stood beguiling, one boot atop her quivering morsel and her posture languid. She cooed, low and silent, trailing the tips of her long fingers to her blood slick lips, tenderising the taste, eyes of the palest blue entrapping and ensnaring, measuring and meticulous.
“I grow weary of the lambs sent to slaughter,” she purred, rolling the words out with a murmur that was softly menacing, viperous... inviting...
“I grow weary of the victims sent to feed me,” she kicked out with her victorious stem, shoving the pliant heroine beneath her boot over onto her formally proud bosom, Eisenberg lowering herself down with coiling grace. With a slow, deliberately wide arc, one impossibly long leg came about to press her pelvis down hard against the other, tamed young woman’s firm buttocks. With a thrust that was possessive, her eyes were for those watching, the world coming to realise that this women who lay beaten beneath her had been meant to be Eisenberg’s opponent.
“Only the brave,” she demanded, her voice cold and eyes piercing, issuing her challenge to everyone and all, emphasising each word with a stronger thrust.
“I welcome the brave,” Eisenberg curled her head back, possessively gyrating atop a submissive heroine, “only the brave deserve to be devoured...”
“I grow weary,” Eisenberg’s silky, slithering tone pierced the pervading silence as the night parted, sliding about the curvaceous carnivore as she stood beguiling, one boot atop her quivering morsel and her posture languid. She cooed, low and silent, trailing the tips of her long fingers to her blood slick lips, tenderising the taste, eyes of the palest blue entrapping and ensnaring, measuring and meticulous.
“I grow weary of the lambs sent to slaughter,” she purred, rolling the words out with a murmur that was softly menacing, viperous... inviting...
“I grow weary of the victims sent to feed me,” she kicked out with her victorious stem, shoving the pliant heroine beneath her boot over onto her formally proud bosom, Eisenberg lowering herself down with coiling grace. With a slow, deliberately wide arc, one impossibly long leg came about to press her pelvis down hard against the other, tamed young woman’s firm buttocks. With a thrust that was possessive, her eyes were for those watching, the world coming to realise that this women who lay beaten beneath her had been meant to be Eisenberg’s opponent.
“Only the brave,” she demanded, her voice cold and eyes piercing, issuing her challenge to everyone and all, emphasising each word with a stronger thrust.
“I welcome the brave,” Eisenberg curled her head back, possessively gyrating atop a submissive heroine, “only the brave deserve to be devoured...”
