Geoff Chamberlain
North Pole #77 Part 2
Oh hey, folks, buckle up—G. Chamberlain here, and you’ve wandered right into the middle of his most explicit story yet. Picture a hulking wood-elf with a cocky grin, a perpetually rumpled tunic, and an imagination dirtier than a goblin’s latrine. One night he catches sight of the warrior-priestess across the bar, tall as a mountain and twice as built. They size each other up like duelists, then crash together in the alley behind the tavern. Clothes barely hit the ground before she pins him, knees digging into cobblestones, her broad hands wrapping round his throbbing length and working him slick from root to crown until his breath comes in short, filthy gasps. She climbs atop without ceremony, sinking onto him in one smooth, wet slide; muscles clench tight around every vein as she rides him hard, hips rolling like she’s born for it. G. swears he’s seeing stars, mouth open on a helpless laugh when she rocks harder, grinding her clit against his pubic bone until both of them shake through grinding, toe-curling climaxes that echo down the alley like thunder. When it’s over she tosses him a wink, steals his cloak for a trophy, and disappears into the night, leaving the poor bastard grinning on the stones, already plotting round two.
Oh hey, folks, buckle up—G. Chamberlain here, and you’ve wandered right into the middle of his most explicit story yet. Picture a hulking wood-elf with a cocky grin, a perpetually rumpled tunic, and an imagination dirtier than a goblin’s latrine. One night he catches sight of the warrior-priestess across the bar, tall as a mountain and twice as built. They size each other up like duelists, then crash together in the alley behind the tavern. Clothes barely hit the ground before she pins him, knees digging into cobblestones, her broad hands wrapping round his throbbing length and working him slick from root to crown until his breath comes in short, filthy gasps. She climbs atop without ceremony, sinking onto him in one smooth, wet slide; muscles clench tight around every vein as she rides him hard, hips rolling like she’s born for it. G. swears he’s seeing stars, mouth open on a helpless laugh when she rocks harder, grinding her clit against his pubic bone until both of them shake through grinding, toe-curling climaxes that echo down the alley like thunder. When it’s over she tosses him a wink, steals his cloak for a trophy, and disappears into the night, leaving the poor bastard grinning on the stones, already plotting round two.