Sentence The Twohundredandsixtysecond
In the aftermath of their coupling, her body wreathed with his, he watching the merrythought of her ribs rising and falling with her breath, he felt like a jayhawker who has stolen the prize of his career, and wondered – perhaps for the first time in his long list of conquests, what it felt like to be a woman won by man, by a man such as he, whose motto was that twisting of Caesar's epithet into Vidi, Vici, Veni; for he had no loyalty to one woman – God's Blood, he had a wife at home, wenches aplenty under his command, other men's wives and daughters queued and waiting for him to impregnate, even that fiendish Nun, Sister Evadne Eglantyne, chained in his oubliette and still to be punished for her denouncement of him (oh, he would enjoy planting his seed in her and watching his bastard swell her belly and ripen her breasts – but the time was not yet ripe) and her spirit not yet broken; and yet there was something foreign to him that he felt as he nibbled the earlobe of this one in whose bed he still lay, still entwined in her legs and arms, her face asheen with the sweat and semen he had covered
it with, he lips swollen and bruised, her teeth white and sharp – he recalled the nip of them in his tongue and smiled, for she had spirit this one, and his member, still deep within her stirred, he could smell her virgin's blood which had soaked into the sheet under her and made his cocks-hair sticky; he began that move which he always loved the best, that slow and sensual rhythm, so very slow, almost imperceptible, which would lead him towards the best climax of the night – the after-fuck, which needed no force, no pressure, in which her sleeping form would respond without any conscious effort on her part, and his own organ gave without need for his control, and he closed his eyes, his lips found hers, his tongue kissed her own sleeping one and it was as if two dreamers blended into one, and he tried to remember where he was to be later, which of the two daughters of Sir Angus McFadden was to be deflowered this night, and dallied with the notion of both twins in the same bed, when he might discover some otherwise hidden way of distinguishing them, and smiled as he anticipated their thirteen-year-old juice in his mouth – Doubleday may even make up a foursome, he thought, now that would put a smile on the old groaner's face, and why not?
In the aftermath of their coupling, her body wreathed with his, he watching the merrythought of her ribs rising and falling with her breath, he felt like a jayhawker who has stolen the prize of his career, and wondered – perhaps for the first time in his long list of conquests, what it felt like to be a woman won by man, by a man such as he, whose motto was that twisting of Caesar's epithet into Vidi, Vici, Veni; for he had no loyalty to one woman – God's Blood, he had a wife at home, wenches aplenty under his command, other men's wives and daughters queued and waiting for him to impregnate, even that fiendish Nun, Sister Evadne Eglantyne, chained in his oubliette and still to be punished for her denouncement of him (oh, he would enjoy planting his seed in her and watching his bastard swell her belly and ripen her breasts – but the time was not yet ripe) and her spirit not yet broken; and yet there was something foreign to him that he felt as he nibbled the earlobe of this one in whose bed he still lay, still entwined in her legs and arms, her face asheen with the sweat and semen he had covered
it with, he lips swollen and bruised, her teeth white and sharp – he recalled the nip of them in his tongue and smiled, for she had spirit this one, and his member, still deep within her stirred, he could smell her virgin's blood which had soaked into the sheet under her and made his cocks-hair sticky; he began that move which he always loved the best, that slow and sensual rhythm, so very slow, almost imperceptible, which would lead him towards the best climax of the night – the after-fuck, which needed no force, no pressure, in which her sleeping form would respond without any conscious effort on her part, and his own organ gave without need for his control, and he closed his eyes, his lips found hers, his tongue kissed her own sleeping one and it was as if two dreamers blended into one, and he tried to remember where he was to be later, which of the two daughters of Sir Angus McFadden was to be deflowered this night, and dallied with the notion of both twins in the same bed, when he might discover some otherwise hidden way of distinguishing them, and smiled as he anticipated their thirteen-year-old juice in his mouth – Doubleday may even make up a foursome, he thought, now that would put a smile on the old groaner's face, and why not?
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