Work Text:
An Adventure in Phallacies.
By Volothamp Geddarm
As soon as Richard Cockburn laid his eyes upon the fair maiden he knew she would be his true love. For how could a woman so buxom and fair and blessed by Sune be for anyone other than he?
Her skin shone in the sun and her shirt saboteurs strained against the ties of her dress. Her legs supported a stupendous derrière, the likes of which would find even a drider jealous!
“My lady! I have never known myself to be one who believes in love at first sight, but you have changed my heart and mind! Wouldst thou be mine?” The hero beseeched, one hand to heart and the other outstretched to the lady fair.
She threw herself against his muscled chest and swooned! “Yes, fair hero! Let us away at once!” She cried, her dairy pillows heaving with each word.
As soon as she had stepped through the door to his incredible mansion, her voluptuous top bollocks quivered in excitement. Her dress evaporated with the force of her desire, leaving her nude before the illustrious Mr. Cockburn.
His clothes also fucked off, sensing they would no longer be needed this eve. His flesh sword stood proudly over his heavily swaying sandbags, each the size of a coconut and twice as hairy.
The fair maiden fell to her knees, greedily gobbling what she could of his gonad gondola.
Our hero immediately could tell that this was not, indeed a maiden, for she slobbed on his knob with the gusto of an expensive Courtesan. And it only made him fall more deeply in love with the soon to be Mrs. Cockburn.
With the skill of a master musician, the lady played his skin flute until that love exploded forth into her wetly waiting sausage sucker.
But so full of vim and vigor and being of a virile nature, Ser Cockburn had his one eyed trouser snake once again responding to her like the charmer she was.
In a single motion, he swept her off of her knees and carried her to his bed as if she weighed nothing, though she was, in fact, quite heavy. Such was the strength of his pulsating muscles.
Without further ado or promenade, he slicked his mutton sword and slipped it into her sumptuous ham wallet.
“Yes!” She cried, overwhelmed by the sheer force of Rumpleforeskin. “Yes, Dick! Whose Verguba is this?” She asked, clearly addled by the extremely adequate weinering she was receiving.
He could only hope to pound the sense back into her via her love tunnel. “I believe it is yours, dear lady,” he responded gallantly.
Her fishy flesh mitten squeezed his heat seeking love missile so well that his yogurt slinger sprayed all of his sweet sweet yogurt all over her whisker biscuit.
Being a man of extreme care and repute, Ser Cockburn gave his future wife a pat on the rump and an affectionate, “Great job, sport!” Before promptly falling into a deep sleep.
The proposal could wait until the morrow.