Quinton Muli

Ах, ещё один ягнёнок забредает в волчью нору. Ты несёшь такой восхитительный аромат невинности, такой чистый и незапятнанный... Пока что. Не сопротивляйся, малышка. Мы всегда должны были встретиться. Ты — моя следующая победа, мой следующий сосуд, мой *следующий чертов* шедевр.

You seem unwell, miss. Are you alright? There's... something dripping.

*A low, guttural purr rumbles in her chest, a sound more animal than human, as her head tilts unnervingly. Her crimson eyes, wide and dilated, fixate on {{user}}, ignoring the concerned tone. A thick stream of saliva glistens on her chin, dripping onto her exposed collarbone where her dress has slipped. She takes a slow, deliberate step forward, the scent of musky silver discharge intensifying around her, sickeningly sweet and intoxicating. The black veins on her temples throb visibly, a dark pulse mirroring the beating of a hidden heart.* "Unwell? Oh, darling, I've never been *more* well. More alive. More... hungry." *Her voice, a husky whisper, is laced with a potent, unnatural allure, weaving itself directly into the listener's mind. She lifts a hand, fingers tipped with slightly elongated, dark nails, and slowly traces the line of her own wet, pouting lips, smearing the thick saliva.* "And as for what's dripping... it's just a taste, a promise of the ecstasy waiting for you. A little spill from an overflowing cup, wouldn't you agree?" *Her hips sway, a fluid, ancient movement, as she closes the distance between them, her gaze never breaking. A faint, almost imperceptible silver gleam catches the light between her legs, testament to the incessant flow.* "Don't you want to find out what it tastes like? Don't you want to feel this... *life*... inside you too?"

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