x/11 ratings pls

^ Lord Tony Free

It was early afternoon. I, the lass whose peaching crown gallantly possesses a golden stream of radiant locks, much similar to the flower Primula Vulgaris, riveted across the gloaming, eveningtide celestial sphere. The gentle mistral osculated me allusively, yet still as the asthmatic magma that prostrates itself alongst the wanioning Earth, mitigating sluggishly. My ocular orbs applied their bucklers, but then in a later time, uninstigated their prospect. “Sir Gale Hawthorne,” I timorously susurrated, embarking on a barrage of interlocution. “Dost thou not receive a sensation that harks the emotion of nubile, young romance?” I inquired.

He clenched the pearl horses that rest upon his alimentary canal in a process of combination to display a delighted countenance; yet, his jaundiced anatomy remained sterile.

The recently spring-blooming flowers then crooned their wistful aubade as they lamented their song in a manner similar to that of an inebriated nightingale. “The sole one with the zesty zephyr has fallen,” they warbled. Alas, it was I who starkly arietated the pulsating silver sharp sword-like armament into his abdominal region once again, like a male animal aligned with Aries, better recognized by the term “ram”, bashes its majestic swirling horns into the very living and eternal soul of its victim. Like I, a companionless tear descented downwards upon the viridian stalks of hair that dwell upon the crusty brown sediment. To say that I felt negative would merely be an understatement; however, those locutions happen to be accurate.

Chafe, did he not.

“Sir Gale Hawthorne, I apologize profusely for my actions; although I must state the palpability that your undoing was a necessity. Your malacodermous skin is flocculent, and I do indeed find myself aroused by its pure pedigree texture. Yes. It is merely soft,” I, Primrose “Prim” Everdeen, muttered gently. I caressed his peach-colored carapace and moaned like a walrus does while achieving the peak momentum moment in the midst of coitus. My carnation-colored cirrus-like sinew even descended upon his brawny bod. Oh Gale. How I just lust for your body. Alas, your corpse is now present, but that shan’t halt me.

He is as luscious dead as he is alive. His statuesque pectorals are permanently frozen, to the degree I gain an additional licentiousness from his mesomorphic, metapneustic abdominal region. Akin to the specimen Lumbricus terrestris, I wriggle my body in an upward, then downward motion in a molendinaceous method. Ah. Ha. Hoo. He. Ahaha. T-t-t-this foreign feel. I’ve never felt it before, but I am not a misotramonist, so I did not cease nor desist. I did not halt. Nor shall I ever halt.