Tug harder on the pineapple
From Create Your Own Story
Cogency flows towards your hands; they flex with the indelible Saharan lucidity that mitigates caliginous intentions. They are blazing with great intensity, and avoid mistakes with phantasmal opposition. Carefully and surgically, you apply friction to your hands, meld them betwixt each other in sanguine tone and in velocity of their phasing and non-transitory, salubrious mirth. Heat encompasses them; they're thoroughly kneaded together as you now contain the unmistakable inkling that pushes forth to expunge this rub.
Not particularly unorthodox is the woman's articulation. She tilts her head and observes a distant orchard inconclusively while inquiring, "Do you usually do this to people?" She utters forth this with booming intensity and shoots a varying expression of disenchantment and disgust at you to navigate to a response. She doesn't laugh afterwards, nor does she smile, but her expression grows slightly less rugged. Her hips reel and ebb aloft, never quite staying still.
"I haven't seen as many pineapples this year - I assumed that they needed to copulate so that we can have more pineapples," you tell her.
"What?" she says, looking at you with an idiosyncratic expression, and elevating an eyebrow
It is set up so that you may gesture at her, and by moving your hands apart, she infers that it would be smoother were her legs further apart. She flashes you an acrid frown before her vision cascades to the bottom integer of space; she blinks heavily, and then outplays her legs, shutting her eyes. Her arms lay malleable and loose by her sides, just convening with her hips.
You tug and wrest and jaunt and tilt and flaunt the pineapple leaves outwards; you counter each extreme angle of displacement with another. The woman emits a eldritch, defeated moan from her chest and groans in a shivery, effervescent pitch as she clenches her fists. Her will to move defeats compartments adjacent to it wildly; any direction possible is a source of locomotion as the woman micturates the liberty historically tuning them; Her fingers wither outwards as she collides the outer skin of her groin. Your wresting of her pineapple causes it to frustrate and shake violently as the acridity of the crimson fresh disperses angstrom by angstrom of the fructose with blind mitigation.
Desperation flows from the woman's shivering mouth to not submit to the haggard fluency of this abrasive trite absolutely abolishes the construction of her. She stays absolutely silent, with a distant spurning gaze on her face. Tension absconds from the face in a manner copacetic with the relief. It eventually reaches a less-constricted point. The woman glows with a respiratory intention and colour floods back to her face.
"Thank goodness" she utters, her pitch is quaking and and seismic tendencies. She tucks her legs together and cross-hatches them in the quality, exuding a soft cry. She shifts her visual cognizance to you thereof. Her eyes are no longer agape and she has them behind a narcotic film.
Though she is breathing in prehistoric gulps of air, you are not cognizant of her moving.
Her aesthetic portrays that of sleep. Her expression has grown phlegmatic, almost peaceful. You rest the pineapple on the concrete summit.
Do you:
- Strip her by virtue of her clothes
- Carry her to your home, with your modest certainty that she's dormant
- Stick the banana in her vagina, close it, and walk away
| Status | ||
| Health | Horny | Location: |
| MP | 0 | |
| Level | 1 | |
