by Kilted Wookie
He was the master criminal, and she was the bank he intended to ram-raid. His plan was simple; he intended to prize open her soft vault of pleasure with his fleshy crowbar, force his way past her defences into her throbbing love tunnel, plundering her of her of her sensual treasures.
He met little resistance as he worked past her outer defences. Her clothing fell away like leaves from an autumn branch as he overpowered her.
He quickly set to work. His explosive charge was primed and ready to be worked into position. She moaned as he worked his love dynamite between her crevices and rammed it home.
Like a plumber unblocking a stubborn drain, he plunged into her, hammering her like a farmer erecting a fence post in the soft earth.
Succumbing to him, like a fallen leaf to a hurricane, she granted access; his key to her lock, drawing him in, allowing him to impale her on his pleasure spike.
Their bodies moved as one, writhing and undulating like some frenzied sea-monster.
He was lost inside her, like a hapless tourist negotiating the M25 for the first time, like a fly trapped in her web of desire.
There was no exit, no escape. He’d started so he had no alternative but to finish.
Her soft velvet vice gripped him; his peg in her warm, wet, tight-fitting hole.
He realised his only hope was to detonate his charge inside her vault and take what he could.
His fuse was lit. The explosion was inevitable. He erupted inside her; a Vesuvius of ecstasy discharging its pyroclastic flow deep inside her cavern.
He withdrew slowly, carefully, ready to make his getaway.
He looked down at her. The impact of their collision written on her face. She opened one eye, then smiled. “You were only meant to blow the bloody doors off,” she sighed.
©Kilted Wookie October 2015