Chapter 1

It is an immense deal of ache and hurt to be stripped nude and unclothed, just as much as it pleasing and enjoyable on either hand—in case you didn't realize it. I am undressed and stripped bare right now as I note all this down to you. My skin is this wholly and expansively nude and uncovered; my gigantic breasts and jagged, prickly-like, orbed and bumpy-like nipples are leveled up and uptight-akin-to in shape and form; my small tummy is this withered and contracted; my vagina yawns and gawps wholly wide open, trembling and quivering too just like my entire body, from the vast iciness and chilliness that is afflicting and racking me right this moment; the air and atmosphere about me is what's more piercingly frosty and freezing, and that, I cannot bear to put up with at all. Fuck me a million times for all that!

He will be here any moment from now, I am conscious. He will be here to stroke and cuddle an uncovered me ... to gobble and devour avariciously a sugary-like and naive me ... and that, I cannot run away from. He says that he is wed and slotted in—by engagement that is—to a sweet, amiable, and fine-looking me. And that—I endeavor so much not to accept it as true. Ladies and gentlemen, I am Ragnhild Ascwin ... and this is my narrative.

Never look at an undressed man, sweetie. If it was not my mother who put those pictographic words in my mind, then I truthfully don't know who articulated it. It could be I myself—or my mocking, ridiculing conscious—Isabel, I named her.

Stylishly and with just the ideal poise, Stian Elbert ambles toward me, effortlessly and with no any intricate trouble. He is naked. Semi naked. And I know and even do feel that he is about to strip himself entirely dress-less. His hair, a subterranean and concentrated shady crimson in tint and appearance, is effusively damp and drenched from the fresh shower that he has just taken. Yes. His stunning whitish lime-like skin is delightfully and startlingly soggy and sprinkly. The way that his heavy and bursting rock-hard-like muscles are arranged and shaped, they seize my breath away and leave me every inch baffled and bamboozled and insensitive and winded. I can feel lust and covetousness of him loading up my veins and blowing apart and splintering my senses to unsurpassed sugariness and syrupiness. Am I if truth be told married to this tremendously handsome guy? Am I?

As he bends down to feel and pat my chin smoothly, he gasps acutely and then gives his dazzling like-velvet black eyes whole attention to mine. I breathe in too—rapidly and hurriedly. Blood thrusts faster and more faster in my veins ... my vagina itself seems like it is opening and sealing up concurrently and all of a sudden. Damn it! He is going to fuck me real excellent and real lovable. I quiver and vibrate in unparalleled enjoyment and delight as his tongue ballets and wiggles on mine.

"Ah," I burble and falter out; and down to our oversize, sumptuous bed we plummet together, him placing his hands down further so they can pat and stroke my behind ... my buttocks in other language. I whine the more, and he sows cavernous, demonstrative, and eagerly unhurried kisses on my throat and between my breasts and even on my nipples themselves. Just as his anterior-set teeth play and fool around with the rims of my cute nipples, I tense and flex up into this one vast solid heap of ice cream and chocolate coalesced. Fuck it!

I am unable to come across my control and drive of will there and then. My hands speedily get in touch with his behind—or hindquarters—feeling the upper edging of his towel and shoving and hauling it off him. My goodness! His bums are so bulky and so filled. I can feel them throb and beat against me. Plus they are so spongy and squashy-like to finger and clinch close to me. Damn it! I fancy him to gum that phallus and John Thomas into me right now. So, so very much for your own added information.

"Draw your legs apart," he speaks softly into my ears, quietly and soothingly. "Haul them apart so I can get into you already and now, now." The insist grows louder and more shrill as he goes on with his stabled, gratifying movement against me. I am so quick and immediate to comply with him. I tear apart my legs, moaning out noisily as I do so, and for a concise minute, he glances and stares down at my vagina, seemingly blown out of his brains and logic altogether. Then, unexpectedly and hurriedly, he collapses himself over me, quietly and with awareness and care, and laying his hard, stiff and beyond doubt inflexible erection into me at that very same time so that I grunt and growl out in deep and utmost bottomless bliss. This enjoyment and gratification is indisputably going to take away my life, it probably seems. Will it?

The joystick that is in my lengthy hole seems so much of a great kick and elation that I do not want in any way possible to be snatched away from me. It generates and produces a great deal of pleasure and lovability which otherwise I could not have foreseen my body building and crafting on its own. I am in the uppermost heavens right now as I share this escapade of with you. I am so ecstatic and overjoyed right now.

"Ah ... ah ... ah," I bawl out from the invariable, frequent enjoyment that Stian is thrusting and ramming into me. There is no pain, no any minor form of any soreness whatsoever. All about me are emotions and sentiments of too much syrupiness and sweetness. While he pulls in and out of me his pleasantly extensive, full-size his penis, I plunge down to the untainted ashen sheets underneath us and ascend up concurrently and over and over again, clinging and clutching on resolutely to his moderately bulky behinds. I am enjoying this repetitive sequence and phase of ours so very much. Until the globe around me dims and darkens all of a sudden and unexpectedly. I faint. Without ever grasping on to it; and in the very midst and core of our ardent get-your-leg-over making.

When I awaken and stir up to my logic and first-class worth judgment, I am all so giddy and woozy experiencing. Damn! This surely feels like a burgundy searing burst-into-flames hell and torment. I can't accept it as being moderately proper and exact that I paled or fainted out in the very midst and heart of my uptight and frenetic rumpy-pumpy screw-making with Stian. How was that ought to take place? Was it typical and ordinary even? I have no any slim hint at all. None which-so-ever. As I whip and budge about on the stocky-sized divan, our formerly shady and gloomy room is this great deal and greatly lighted up and illumined; I stir about the more only to I ascertain and discern a small, petite washbasin half-loaded with water as well as a chalice of ice and hoarfrost and a beaker of pills and tablets on the very unchanged diminutive table just next to the massive, classy-looking bed that I am now lying down on. Huh! Was I being put under the knife and carried surgical treatment on in this once-upon-a-time dim and ominous-like room? By Stian himself the medic and surgeon himself?

I glance about and notice him seated down not far away from me, hushed and pessimistic looking on the very alike and similar bed that I am stock-still and frozen on. He is not entirely naked nevertheless. He is dressed in that self-same emerald, bottle green similar-to towel that he came into our bedroom having on from the bathroom, wiping up and swabbing a soaked him literally dry what's more. In spite of his melancholy and great worry, he is extremely and exceptionally handsome as ever before. My God! I desire to feel and touch him right now. Absolutely. I cannot keep check myself ... or my untamed and feral passions either.

"Stian," I word kindly and delicately, shifting my hand about to stroke and finger him. He reaches for my hand in a fleeting while and grasps it so fine and fighting fit. Oh yes. In spite of my breeding and deteriorating twinge and anguish at the same time, I can feel contentment and delight overhauling me and my sentiments themselves. "Stian, what went on here?" I ask tenderly and feebly.

He exhales out noisily and then shrugs to himself. "You lost your consciousness, Ragnhild; and I had to ring up the doctor."

"Actually?"

"He went away a couple minutes ago; and he wound up that you are in good health and that nothing grave is this off-beam and in-the-wrong with you. Did you wolf something before we arrived here to hump and get it on with each other?"

"I didn't," I answer truthfully and sincerely.

He gets irritated and annoyed consecutively and promptly. "Which might make it clear why you fainted and experienced a black-out all of a sudden and unexpectedly. In any case, you must speedily eat something up before we get off to take forty winks, will you?"

"I won't take any nap until we conclude what we have already begun, Stian."

"But you are still frail and fragile, Ragnhild."

"I will be sturdy and all right if I gobble something. Please." I look at him in that beseeching and entreating manner till his eyes and expression itself softens and alleviates at long last. Then he concurs to my suggestion little by little and surely.

"Okay. Chomp and we shall carry on with our bang-bang business there and then."

I do not waver and falter about to eat what he fetches and carries me in my cradle—or bed. Grapes, strong and in-good-physical-shape carroty-like orange-shaded juice, vegetable planted and fixed in two pieces of pies, and flimflam-like scones. Oh ... I love it. Once I am through eating, we go on with where we had put down the coitus and fucking scene and prospect. My, my! My vagina wriggles and waggles straight away in absolute kick and enthusiasm as the markedly gorgeous man before my vigilant and on-the-alert eyes strips entirely nude and naked. I like the way that his profound and very eye-catching chest is patterned and styled tastefully. I am in addition to that mad about the way that his impressively and mightily fabricated arms are styled and molded ... the manner his bounty chest hair is spread and unfurled. No, he does not have any pubic locks and curls of hair close to his sexual organ and womb pecker. That underneath, striking branch is satisfactorily and sufficiently sheared and done up. I give my word about it.

Ah ... the feel of his large and elongated dong—or pecker—breaking through and piercing into my vulva and on tenterhooks unoccupied trench—it blusters and blows me out of my intellect and sagacity speedily and without postponement. ARGHHHH! There is just a certain grand lovability and charm to the clash and rap of his John Thomas against my thrilled punani. He hits and knocks his Extensive, Gigantic John against the barricades and walls of my breathing and living twat, giving immense pleasure to me and making my day so great and wholly out of this world by so doing. As he lets go his seed and spermatic fluid—or jism—into me, I feel the fortifications and bulwarks of my cunt broaden and enlarge so that my womb mechanically and routinely collects more and more of his incessantly pouring and heavily drizzling semen—all let loose hastily and frantically mad into me—and as that takes place, I can imagine and visualize up my vagina's interior flushing and swilling out an unfathomable crimson and the sugared and over-sweetened gumming-like honey held in his intense and unbroken discharge replenishing and furnishing me with too sweet and maudlin enjoyment and bliss. I yelp out at the top of my voice, "Ah ... you ... are ... killing ... me ... Stian..."

My words at ultimate last jumble up and tail off and become this confused and mish-mashed like; my thoughts and judgment is to a great extent disturbed and blown apart as if from a potent shell blast; I don't ever imagine or assume moreover that I will be able to gulp and draw in another sweet-smelling, fragrant-like breath after all this too-sweet-to-be-true trances and wide-awake hallucinations of mine. I am dying. Fast and assuredly.

As Stian attains or reaches his hands behind me to cuddle and stroke my bottom or gluteus maximus, he slices and stabs his oversize, filled penis deep into me, filling my vagina up with his male gamete and spermatozoa, making me bawl and howl in too much bliss and enjoyment. I have never been this filled up and made strongly happy. Much less pleased and gratified with sex and covetousness and love and obsession. My goodness! Am I not going to breathe my last and perish from intense enjoyment and contentment? It is all sweet –fantastically and intensely and fiercely lovable. A—r—g—hhhhh! I love it!

With his hands fastened and secured on my butts, he shoves his huge knob in and then quickly hauls it out of me, smacking and whacking my buns behind me down there lightly and pleasurably. The approach and style that his organ or pecker rips open and breaks apart the inside of me—it exhausts and strips me of my thinking and vigor and oomph. I am so mislaid and gone astray in thought right now. Vanished in the middle of I don't know where exactly. Stian is not coarse and forceful and voilent me; He is this startlingly and incredibly tender and mild and caring and gentle-like. My God! When is all of this enjoyment and bliss of mine going to conclude? When specifically? When?

I haul up my leg up for him to go in into me faultlessly well and he at once mounts himself toward me, inhaling and heaving a sigh out a great lot deal as he does so. His lungfuls of air bluster and squalls across my skin. Yeah. It is strongly breezy and nippy too—just the idyllic thing that I need right this specific minute to scrap and brawl against the grave sweat and exceptionally high temperature that is going and out through my body. Moments back, I felt that the air was exceedingly hot and scorching about me, that it would cook and stew my flesh up, until Stian Elbert heaved out, much to my liberation and relief. Yeah. Sex ... is incredibly good quality and excellent too. I am relishing in it.

Steadily and warily, Stian takes out his massive, valuable and dear Willie out of me. I feel the delight and enjoyment spinning and whirling inside my vagina recede and slither away as he does that. Damnit! He looks at me gradually and suspiciously, his eyes easier-said-than-done and tricky to grasp on to, until he ultimately makes that query to me, "Must I carry on with this pleasing, lovely trance of ours?"