See if you can catch the deliberate errors many copy editors seem to miss :. Her porcelain cheeks glowed a modest pink, as she tried to avoid staring at the exquisitely crafted bronze statues of bear breasted women that stood at both sides of the doorway. With a determined look in her lagoon blue eyes, she extended her finger in a businesslike fashion to ring the doorbell. My goodness. Laney thought a trembling hand held to her pounding heart was that the doorbell? She had never heard anything like it in her life.
The door swung open and a unspeakably sexy man god appeared. Laney lowered her lush yet unmascaraed lashes in mortification at the awesome spectacle of his bare chest.
It was a tanned brawny plain covered with majestic fields of golden hair, her fingers unaccustomed to male geography longed to explore the terrain. On his torso, plain denim cutoffs achieved greatness. Brute Masculaine. He looked her over. Laney knew as his eyes slid over her body she would never be the same.
She felt her purity being stripped away as his bold intrusive gaze zeroed in on her breasts, protected by a wool jacket, starched blouse and sturdy bra. Not that I wear any. She thought with the indignation entitled to anyone who graduated third in her class at Harvard. She raised a trembling hand to slap him and he caught it a devilish gleam in his eye.
His roguish tongue spelunking in the uncharted cavern of her mouth. She wanted to stop him, had to stop him but her body was limp as overcooked linguine.
How they made it into the house she would never know but she found herself on her back on a leopard print velour sofa. Her jacket was history, her pantyhose were tangled around her ankles and Brute was systematically biting the buttons of her blouse. What was happening to her? She was not a harlot, a hussy , a woman of questionable morals. But this man made her feel like a sleazy, hot blooded whore with no dental plan. His feel of his leathery hands on her lush ivory breasts was too much. She grabbed for his pants, and ripped the fly open, unleashing the awe inspiring spear of skin inside.
With one hand he tore off her panties and sent them sailing into the fireplace.
Catullus' Cena : "I'll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come"
His initial entry she felt a brief insignificant stab of pain, much like an inoculation. It was quickly doused by the wave upon wave of unbearable, immeasurable otherworldly pleasure. Right Purple Prose as written by Shirley U. Gueste :. Right Haywood lounged insolently, indifferently, and diffidently against the polished marble mantel of the fireplace, wondering why he agreed to the tedium of yet another social gathering of the ton. They turned, as well as she, in his direction just as his head yearned in her direction.
They caught each other staring. Their eyes locked. It was painful. His breeches tightened, his sensual arsenal swelled, making his turgidity total. He tried to tamp down his growing arousal, but applying his own hand to the front of his shrinking breeches aroused him and threatened to cause a munitions explosion.
His batsman, Corporal Roddie Kleaver, would have admired the fit of his dress uniform this night. And Roddie, despite his low rank, was a high stickler. He both envied and admired the fact that Haywood was hung like the proverbial stallion. Haywood, however, worried that those who were unaware of his natural giftedness would gossip if they were to perchance notice the aroused condition of his manhood.
He did not want to be the subject or object of unmerciful curiosity among the gossips of the idle rich. Jealous men would accuse him of being a vainglorious jackanape trying to enhance his pitiful masculinity by stuffing wads of socks down his pantaloons in an attempt to attract the ladies. The curiously loose languishing ladies of the ton would try to accost him to discover for themselves the validity of his virility.
POETRY AND RESOURCES IN EMAIL FORM
Now was not the time to be upfront about his endowments Haywood decided, tucking his dress gloves neatly into the front of his waistband and folding them over his troublesome shaft. Confident that smoothing the gloves over the front of his breeches indeed disguised his condition, his eyes sought her out again. He felt like an unsheathed sword as he followed her and her breasts with his eyes. He watched as the woman broke away from his gaze and said something to Richard. Then they both turned as one toward Haywood, the woman taking one last bite of her tart and disposing of the empty plate on the tray of a passing servant.
Slowly, Richard and the woman, her hips undulating in rhythm with her bounteous mounds, began to walk towards him. They were coming in his direction. His manhood was fully erect, just looking at them. Even from a distance she felt it. She laughed in response, fussing with the tatted lace shawl grazing the tops of her tits.
Her laugh rippled over Haywood and drew his attention once again to her creamy mounds, which he now noticed were lightly dusted with sugar and small delicate flakes of pastry from the tart she had just consumed. Her musical chortling choked him because it caused her voluptuous breasts to ripple provocatively. His eyes strayed to her twittering tits then strayed to her deep cleavage where they rested on a small dollop of raspberry jam.hu1.do.iwebcloud.co.uk/a-treatise-of-human-nature.php
Purple Prose Parody - All About Romance
Haywood took her proferred fingers in his palm. As he raised her hand to his lips, the woman curled her fingers around his digital members and squeezed them. He bent his head and kissed three buffed tips with curling lips, then paused to look at her with hooded eyes. The problem was that his arousal had caused his breeches to tighten to such an extent it impossible to free the necessary glove.
He rued tucking them into his tightening waistband to hide his standing member. He struggled with the glove and bit off a curse. He struggled some more and bit off a string of curses. He struggled again and practically bit off his tongue. Despite his curses, the cursed things would not spring free of his breeches. What a truly amazing sight to her not quite innocent eyes to see a man struggle so with tightening breeches. Dick is redressing me. I was considering a walk about the gardens. Care to join me?
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Parrying a strange man in a public ballroom was an innocent undertaking, accompanying him to a secluded garden would be a public confirmation of her reputed reputation. The lady at his side was filling his senses, and making his troublesome trousers fill as well. A slow, purely masculine grin curved his chiseled lips. Wilhe blinked in surprise.
No wonder the man appeared both fit and feral. He must have only recently returned from the Peninsular War. Her uncertainty about him seeped away as she gazed at this magnificent specimen of British manhood, Wilhe smiled. His cocky grin grew, along with his cock. The idea of serving beneath him was not altogether displeasing. Before Wilhe knew what he was about, the Major drew her small, soft hand against his arousal straining beneath the gloves he had foolishly thought would hide his penile thoughts.
Some sound escaped her, then her fingers spread over the heated hardness with a possessiveness previously known to her on occasion. In that moment Wilhe knew her feminine power, and hoped he had command over himself. She had a firm grasp on the situation and could lead this man around by his manhood, which was at full attention. As in getting lucky?
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Woody mused to himself.
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