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I want to cry with frustration by this point, knowing that all of my efforts to live out my fantasy will come to nothing. I’m irritable and restless, so I decide that sitting here won’t do me any good. I need to go for a walk.I quietly slip out of the room and head downstairs. Other than a few people in reception, the hotel is empty. I make my way outside and slowly walk around the gardens and the pool area.I’m about to go back inside when I hear footsteps.Then I see you, emerging from the shadows.Without saying a word, you take my hand and lead me away from any prying eyes that might be watching from their balconies.There is an area behind the tennis courts, where the sun loungers are stacked at night, and this is where you take me. Letting go of my hand, you lift one of the plastic beds from the pile and put it down in front of us. After having a final glance around to make sure that we are alone, you sit down and pull me towards you.Not a single word is spoken by either of us.I. Then, wrapped in ermine, she was escorted to the nearby mating chamber. It was here, in the glow from the fireplace at the far end of the room, that the aphrodisiacs started to take effect. The lesser satyrs used all of their profound knowledge to tease her mortal flesh to a feverish boiling heat of liquid wanton need. They had been taught their art by the Horned Deity. They were supremein holding the tigress/whore on the precipice of ecstasy awaiting the beast. She was the goddess of the empty vessel, loins needing to be split in order to make the spirit whole. The Great God of Potency stood looking down upon her sinuous form as she stared back through half closed eyes. He smelled like damp earth and cinnamon. She swore that she felt the heat from his hand while it was still inches away, and when he stroked her thigh rivulets of lightning coursed over her skin like a thousand tongues. She gave a low animal moan and spread her legs farther apart revealing that her.
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I looked up in time to see that it was just a minivan, nobody I needed to care about, but right behind it was the ratty old pickup truck with Delilah at the wheel, staring myopically straight ahead, her thick glasses and bright orange hair reflecting the pinkish light from the lampposts lining the narrow strip of lawn and sidewalk between the parking lot and the street. I raised my cup as she drove by, but she didn’t give any sign of noticing or of recognizing me — unless she was directly involved in a conversation, Delilah was usually off in her own world. A little batty, to get right to it. Which explained, probably, why she was the best writer of the bunch of us. I checked the time — 10:17. Twelve minutes since we’d called an end to the meeting, eight minutes since I’d left Gloria’s place, the first to go as usual while Delilah and Colleen lingered to chat with Gloria, gathering up their papers and pens, the minor workplace gossip that they tried to avoid during the meeting so we.

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