Like a cat, stretched out, content in her own fur, she purred lightly to him.
Crooking her finger, she beckoned, enticing him slowly closer.
He went of course, why wouldn’t he? Why would he refuse? She was like no one else. There was only her and his mind was full of her.
He knelt at her side and waited.
She watched him, contemplatively.
In time, she seemed to curl up, from the inside out, vertebrae contracting and slotting together one by one in a sleek feline move, as she arched her back at him. Her head seemed ridiculously low in comparison to the height of her now convex and elongated frame. She contorted her neck to gaze directly into him with large eyes which she had narrowed slightly, possibly for effect.
And it was effective. He was drawn so far in to her that he wondered if he would ever come out alive.
He wasn’t wrong, of course. There was something about her which suggested that his attraction, and subsequent acquiescence, could be fatal. Perhaps not physically, but it was possible that he would never recover from her and from what would pass between them.
She saw this in his eyes and his fear and yearning ignited something deep within her.
She knew men, of course, and she knew the boys they were. She drew them to her whenever she chose and her mystical, magical elixir pulled them immediately under her spell. Her age became experience which shrouded their own desire to taste and touch and live whatever life she chose.
Her sex throbbed at the way that he relinquished control, giving himself to her while still clinging on the vain notion that he had chosen her.
He was exquisite, and she knew that she was going to enjoy him.
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