I crawl out of the mangled remains of my BMW Z3, winded and bruised, swirling shapes of colors dancing outrageously upon the blackness of the night sky. I can hear her whimpering and moaning; can smell her fear and helplessness, and begin to drag my ungainly body around the front of the overturned car towards her intermittent gasps. Brambles and twigs snag my clothes and skin as i work my way into the brilliant and rich glow of headlights, feeling a tender throb in my blue jeans as my 7.5 inch penis awakens from its slumber, uncoiling into a rock hard serpent of bilious vengeance.
I claw my way towards the pathetic sounds of Gwyneth, who, silly wench, was not wearing a seatbelt and was therefore thrown through the windshield, rudely interrupted from her reverential redlipstick application, when I spun out on a slick turn and sent us careening over an embankment and into the woods.
As my head clears of the insane menagerie her feet and legs inch into view: one foot is bare, shining in the light like carved marble, while the other is contorted into some bloody alien appendage, still strapped to a broken black stiletto. The tip of my aching cock creeps out from between my waistband and stomach, taking in a full waft of the fragrant, summer night and releasing a single drop of its pearl poison. I work my way up her smooth, glorious legs, now adorned with cuts and thorns, until my body lies cruelly upon them. She kicks softly beneath me and a tremor rises from her toes deep into her thighs. I swear i see a ripple of emotion roll through her fabric-draped pubic triangle. I look down and desire overcomes me. Godlike desire. An epiphany of primal lust that courses from my loins into my brain. I pull myself up to her using my arms (the feeling in my legs is gone) and drag my chest over hers, until our chins meet. I feel her soft moaning like a purr, it electrifies and sickens me.
Gwyneth is a beautiful woman: long jet black hair and girlish blue eyes set in a perfectly contoured face, 5'7" with firm, supple breasts. Her hindquarters, while not especially large, are a revelation, though i have only beheld their naked glory a handful of times. Something indefinable about their proportions and shape is both uncanny and supremely desirable, as though they were a sacred temple, built eons ago by a forgotten race; a portal into their eldritch past. When I think of her ass i think of the fairy mounds of Ireland, of things now dimly remembered and misunderstood and feel myself a part of that mythical past, a pagan deity seeking its sacred portal.