“A man walked into a 15th century Scottish castle. Excusing his servants, he barred the door behind him and smiled wickedly. Even though his powerful thighs ached from a hard day’s riding, one thing was assured: he was ready to ride again. In the faint candlelight, his wet clothes, which were damp with sweat and fresh rainwater, seemed almost transparent, and underneath them, his lustrous skin glistened like polished bronze. He may have been a lord and a gentleman, but deep down, he was still a lustful savage, burning with a hot, primal desire. Removing his tunic, he tossed it carelessly to the ground, exposing a muscled chest and an impossibly chiseled abdomen. As he thought of his beloved, who awaited him upstairs in the tower, he could feel his blood pumping faster and harder — thump, thump, thump — and before he knew it, his fingers were untying his trousers with a reckless impatience. Soon, he would feel his lady’s soft, tender kisses; her warm, tremulous embrace; her impassioned womanhood writhing against his huge, throbbing — ”
Quick! Someone’s coming! Pretend you’re reading that other book! Yes, the Dostoevsky!
“Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov…”
© 2014 Tony Vicory.