home authors guest shorts graphical shorts
Pierre Emantal had harvested many fine pelts that season. It was April in the Yukon, and the snowy teat of DuChamp's Glacier stood erect in big sky, its westerly edge so sharp Pierre could feel it slice across his tongue.
The mountain snows were melting, swelling the voluptuous meanderings of the Saskataw river. Pierre knelt on her soft, mossy banks and plunged his face into her vital, icy issue. Awash in her gentle, burbling essence, he lapped eagerly until he could take no more. Yep, he really worked his tongue into that river's fucking cunt.
Date Written: April 15, 2002
Average Vote: 4