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Joselyn Foche lay on her back on the rumpled double bed, the afternoon sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, baking the soft, round rings of her nipples into hard pink stubs, scorching her bare crotch. She opened her legs wider, letting the sunlight bathe her fat pubic mound, the sparse tendrils of her blonde pubic hair, the plump cheeks of her shapely buttocks.
She was a second year graduate student in Chemistry, but the only Chemistry on her mind at the moment was her own. She felt sensuous, like a cat, and there was a lustful craving between her legs, a yearning deep in her belly. She stretched out, placing her arms up over her head, spread eagling herself, making her firm, pear-shaped breasts lift tantalizingly, parting her thighs so far that it felt almost as if her pelvis would crack from the strain.
Like a human sacrifice she thought, closing her eyes, basking in the heat, letting her imagination run wild. An Aztec victim about to be put to the stone dagger. Her long blonde hair cascaded over the edge of the stone altar, her wrists and ankles manacled to its four corners, the altar, itself, atop a steep sided pyramid. She imagined she was a high-born virgin whose spilled blood would appease the hunger of the Sun god and insure the coming of the maize. In her mind, she saw the high priest approach, his face masked by hammered gold, rimmed by exotic feathers, his coppery chest greased, gleaming in the sun. What he held in his hand, however, was not the jagged sliver of obsidian, the sacrificial knife, but the huge, up curving length of his throbbing penis, a ruddy scimitar of meat crowned by a massive purple bulb.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.