He pumped as she raised her legs obediently. A glance sufficed to show the young man how matters stood. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. Perhaps I've been mad all these years; I don't know. "What's the matter?" he cried. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. The Reaper is not sated yet.
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