The Viking Between My Legs, pencil on paper Cream (Poem) On the fourth chime,the air in the room shifts. Twisting, bending–changing. The docile purring morphs into a sultry growl.A sound of need, of lust. She bites her lip,ready for what's to come. The eighth chime bringsa sturdy, bearded figure,wearing a feline grin. Licking his lips, he makesslow, steady steps toward her. Claws still out,his thick legs hit the bed. Glowing eyes, narrow,scanning her every curve.Her core throbs, feeling his stare. With the twelfth chimehe’s over her.Large hands nowgliding up, up, her luscious...
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