On Red Herrings

"Come on," Emma whispered from over her shoulder.

I did.

She purred in heat, contented as a cat in a dairy; me, as an old dog in a cathouse.

"M-my god!" she moaned, she panted; "never in my wildest dreams...!"

Her thoughts were interrupted.

Suddenly Raven began having syncopated convulsions as a shuddering climax tore its way from her quivering cunny throughout the rest of her body leaving her shaking and gasping for air―this was the genuine ecstasy of the witch riding on the broom!

Emma didn't stop.

Neither did I; nor could I.

Emma's body had acted as an amplifier when Raven came, and before I realized it, I was coming too. Her uterine muscles had flexed, then gripped, massaged, and milked the very marrow out of my...

Emma didn't stop; nor could she.

She arched and thrust and thrashed until loudly enough to split the heavens, she cried out in convulsive ecstasy, "I-I'm fucking cummmmmmming!"

She sure did too―a polychromatic orgy of light and liquid exploded alighting the walls with lambent tongues of flame! There were stars and semen shooting everywhere! Radiance poured forth from her!

We were left blinded and sticky.

Thank heavens she'd pulled out.

As we three lay there on the floor in a rainbow of enchanted seminal fluids (?) covering our flesh like neon body paint, all quieted, contented, serene, Emma began to rub her recently restored clit― presumably to make certain that it was still there (one can never be too sure). She smiled; I smiled too. On the other side of her thighs, I saw Raven―watching and smiling also. Our eyes met, our smiles spread, and at the same moment, we both looked at Emma who was grinning like the Cheshire Cat―and still rubbing her clit: onanistically mesmerizing us.

She cast her eyes to one of us, and then to the other; one of us, then the other; one, then the―her grin grew beyond the confines of her face; her rubbing speed accelerated.

I looked at Emma, she looked at me; she looked at Raven, Raven looked at her; Raven looked at me, I looked at her―an irrepressible grin ran from face to face.

There was only one way this could possibly end:

If one writes a story with sex in it too descriptively, too vividly, it becomes too arousing and the reader puts down the book and goes and gets laid.