Halloween Sex Inside A Coffin

Halloween Sex Inside A Coffin Halloween Sex Inside A Coffin

Status: Finished

Genre: Romance

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Romance

Summary

It is Halloween, and Stian Elberd, with the company and presence of his cutely and submissive wife, Ragnhild Ascwin, decides to try out hot and excessively enjoyable sex inside a scary, lavish coffin. Will it turn out great? Or awful?

Summary

It is Halloween, and Stian Elberd, with the company and presence of his cutely and submissive wife, Ragnhild Ascwin, decides to try out hot and excessively enjoyable sex inside a scary, lavish coffin. Will it turn out great? Or awful?

Content

Submitted: January 22, 2015

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Content

Submitted: January 22, 2015

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Every lapsing by Halloween, Stian and I have what we label and describe as ‘daggy and eccentrically out-of-the-way sex.’ In other words, this is the same as outré and uncommon and bizarre sex. Yeah…sex and screwing and matters of lovemaking and fucking that are too weirdie and grotesque and spooky and eldritch to relate and put up in words. This Halloween, we are going to fuck each other in ponderous and mammoth and substantial coffin that duly and absolutely tailors and fits to be adapted for the big silver screen in some horror and devil movie. Say one that bears the title ‘When The Heinous Dead Make Love In A Coffin.’

 

The coffin is burly and bulky and gigantic and spacious and sumptuously and lushly decorated and furnished and purveyed inside. Its ceiling and roofing has got splendid and dazzling and ablaze amber lights and lanterns tacked and annexed to it; its walls and barricades and bulwarks are wholly and in every respect white like death warmed up and snowy and pale hued and tinctured. There are cushy and soft and comfortable and overpriced hassocks and headrests and squabs and bolsters arrayed and jacked up sleekly and neatly inside there. Yeah. So, so spick-and-span and shipshape and well-kept and spruce to the very heart and crux indeed. Is this not Promised Land and Zion itself? Hell yeah…you know what? The majority of the dead and deceased have lavish and flourishing and palatial and overpriced homes than the ones that we settle in, don’t you think so? Yeah. I do believe and in fact assume so myself.

 

The outward and surface and intact exterior of the large, massive coffin is this grand and sumptuous and ornate too. It is formed and built and fashioned of the most excellent and masterly and exceptionally imperishable and immortal wood itself. Yeah. I desire and wish that this was my very own home and Eden. But then come on, I am still alive and kicking and breathing, am I not? Duh!

 

Tonight, with all the lights in our house flicked and flipped and switched off, and the darkly and shadow-ish and dingy candles twinkling and glimmering and glistening ablaze, it is all calm and serene and hushed and inaudibly low-pitched like there is not any small creature or being breathing and animate and kicking in our house—or is there?

 

I am robed and frocked and gowned like a vampire femme fatale or Lorelei or enchantress all in all. A vampire cocotte and streetwalker even. My dress and apparel and raiment is blood coral and red and roseate in tint and shade. All my jugs and boobies and large, sensuous, and kissable breasts are uncovered and unclothed and fully starkers in this good-looking, cutely, and beautiful vermilion dress that I am putting on. At the heads and points and nibs of my nipples is smeared and spread on frozen and glaciated ice cream. Yes. While it melts and unfreezes and defrosts, it surges and drifts and tide-ways down my bulky and chunky breasts themselves, stimulating and whetting and whipping me up sexually as I think up and envision Stian’s hands haring and loping and creeping down them. I swallow and slurp down hard as that comes about.

 

The dress and raiment I am having on strips and bares my bums and hindquarters and big, massive, and prepossessing arse behind. Yes. It is all bare and uncovered and buck starkers. I grin and twinkle and beam to myself when Stian Elberd slap bangs and smacks and spanks and clobbers it with his macho and well-built hand while surveying and reccing and poring over it. Yeah. It all feels so delightful and pleasurable and lekker indeed, doesn’t it to you?

 

Whenever I take a stroll and tramp and traipse about, my very large, mega eye-catching and cumber fuckable ass behind wags and jiggles and squirms and wiggles on carnally and erotically and voluptuously. Stian loves and adores it whenever I do that. It makes him lap and brush and thrash his ravenous, puckish, and sharp-set tongue over his famished, starving, and athirst lips. Yeah. So, so delightful and delectable and to my liking indeed.

 

Other than this, my vagina and pussy and clitoris and thighs are one hundred per cent and from first to last stripped bare and nude and scuddy naked altogether. Yes. Stian even goes on to feel and finger his hand in my pussy nicely slow and sluggish and laggard and dawdling. Don’t you like that? Of course, love and appreciate and relish it.

 

Arghhhhh! Stian is super and mega hot and enjoyable. This man is the awesome and cracking top and smashing boffo example and specimen and representative case of what it means to be sexy and come-hither and beddable. His blooming and robust and in-fine-fettle muscles are powerful and vigorous and hard-wearing than ever before. I can picture and conjure up them sweating and drudging and laboring intensely hard to cheer and satisfy and gratify and give uttermost pleasure to me. Oh yes! They assuredly and certainly will be doing that. Without a doubt indeed!

 

Stian is arrayed and rigged in a superman like robe and gown. It is not that very extensive and far-reaching and stretched and extended; it nips in the bud and ends somewhere about his backside and butts and haunches. Worn over the pitchy robe that is snapped and torn and rent on either sides is a very snug and cosy and tight-fitting shirt. This one is pitch-black and pitchy too, but it is very much seductive and eye-catching and irresistible than the pitchy robe. Down there on his legs he dresses in nothing but very sensuous and suggestive and titillating underwear and smalls and undies. I love them. Just the sight of them makes me want to touch and entertain myself with his giant, elephantine Willie and plonker—who even now when he is still fast asleep and napping and so dead to the world, is still that ginormous and fuck-off big enough to scare and frighten the hell out of my hole and cunt—and cutely and exquisite balls and family jewels. Oooh! Blood is thrusting and pressing and jamming faster and more faster into my veins, piercing and jabbing and ballooning me with just too much licentiousness and concupiscence. Yeah…

 

And action time…

 

First. We take the first step and put our hand to the plough with the snogging and kissing and canoodling thing. Arghhh. It feels so enjoyable and fun and congenial to snog and kiss and canoodle and smooch, doesn’t it? Yeah…it hell sure and fire surely does. Stian and I peck and snog and buss while grazing and caressing and stroking each other until we both tumble and plummet down inside of the commodious and roomy and homely coffin. As it shuts and seals up by itself, we press and carry on with the kissing and snogging. Of course! There is oxygen and air here, which is doubtlessly a good thing indeed, or is it not?

 

Stian is on top of me and the way he is snogging and stroking and necking me expresses and reveals to me how so much in love he is with me. Arghhh. I heave and buoy and hoist up my head whenever he smooches and busses and pecks and brushes my throat and chest and breasts themselves, gratifying and cheering and tickling me to the very core and hilt. I am so in love with him and all this…I idolize and think the world of him and everything that he is doing to me right this very moment.

 

While he kisses and snogs and caresses me, he shifts and switches and stirs one hand to my clitoris and punani, where, once he has stroked and caressed and patted and petted it, he pokes and jabs and prods and nudges his fingers deep inside it, tickling and tantalizing and arousing me high and higher and more higher each time that he does that. Yeah. I don’t want him to break off from accomplishing and performing this. I don’t want him to do that. Not ever!

 

With my ecstatic and stoked so as to float on air hands, I make it to his underwear and smalls so as to lug and wrench and wrest them off until I have his tool and knob and John Thomas and cojones and family jewels in my very own seize and grip and clinch. I don’t clinch and clutch them painfully though. I do it all properly and nicely and beautifully in a fashion and style that does not hurt and bruise him but amuse and gratify and gladden him instead. Hell yeah. I can hearken to him whinge and groan and moan out happily and with joy and the more punch-drunk overjoyed and chuffed still. Aren’t you carping and bitching and whining along with us as well?

 

Our lips and mouths come across and stumble upon each other…and as that ensues, we both osculate and snog and smooch and kiss exceedingly and greatly till we have made it past the topmost nth degree. I split and disjoin and disunite my legs just in time enough for him to make an entrance and cross the threshold into me. Arghhhhh! While he gets and slumps into me steadily and at his own leisure and sweet-most lackadaisical pace, I grasp and hold on to both sides of the shut giant and titanic-resembling coffin, all on a grand scale and by leaps and bounds stoked and floating and on cloud nine. Is this not what you call sugar and rapturous sex inside a glorious and ravishing coffin? Is this not it?

 

Once he is every inch and heart and soul inside of my vagina, Stian starts to blow up and rump up and aerate into me, heightening and jacking and putting up more and more speed and tempo and momentum as he goes on. I am so over the moon and in seventh heaven and overjoyed and rapt about it. I genuinely and verily am. I bellow and bawl and hollo out, all the more boisterous and obstreperous and clamorous and riotous as he thrusts and bulldozes and prods and jostles into me all the more harder and faster. I am sweating like a pig ad sticking it out like no man’s business. My hands ploddingly but in good time make it to his butts and hindquarters. I nab and seize and capture and entrap them like nuts and crackers. Yeah. They are fleecy and smooth as a baby’s bottom indeed. So, so downy and velvety like nothing more pleasurable and delectable to pat and pet indeed. Holy goodness! I am going bananas and batty. All because of his baby smooth bottom and arse?

 

Arghhhh! Stian is thumping and thudding and clanging and buffeting all the hell lot faster and harder into me. I adore and cherish and treasure it so very much. Not solely does that gladdens and gives me so immensely and exceedingly a pleasure. It is as well to some small degree or extent sore and hurting and aching and excruciating. But the sweet-most and saccharine delectation way far high makes up for the slight and minor soreness and trouble and throe that I am undergoing and feeling right now, or does not it? Yeah. It hell-flames-blaze-up and come the fire and brimstone does!

 

As Stian shoves and bulldozes and impels and jostles his Willie deep and more deeper into me, I proceed on to clutch and snap up all the tighter and more firm his Brobdingnagian, silky like a baby’s bottom, and flawlessly and impeccably curvilinear and full-fleshed bottom and bums toward myself. Yeah. I am rejoicing and reveling and delighting in this so, so, so very much unquestionably. What could be any and inexorably better than having sex and screwing and shagging and humping up each other in a goddamn and god-doomed coffin? What, huh? What methodically and literally? Make it also known to me please!

 

 


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