She pressed herself back to me as she then slid one hand down between her legs.As I felt my orgasm die off, I stared down at her and held her shoulder...s while she fingered herself. I could hear the sound of her and she was dripping. I dreamed of all that precious juice between her legs. She was still rubbing herself against me. Her eyes closed, she was gasping a little.“I love. Your cum. On my skin.” she gasped, lowering her face and moaning. But we had agreed. To do this, she had to stay where. "Hello John," she said, "I feel your hatred."John was confused. He didn't know this woman, or why she was talking to him. "I feed on your hatred. It makes me strong." She said, in a seductive manner. "So I want to give you something in return. You see, we can work symbiotically. I fuel your hatred, and your hatred fuels me."John finally found the ability to talk, "What... what do you mean?" He asked."I can give you the power to act on your hatred. You can take revenge on those you feel so. “Whether it was the earlier tea or your personal libation,” she licked her lips and giggled, “I find myself fully prepared.”Indeed, her pussy was as ready and eager as his cock was. Rolling on her back and raising and spreading her legs in a most unqueenly way, she welcomed the prince on top of her. His penis pushed into her vagina with a squish, and the two worked against each other with the required dispatch.The queen’s long legs gave him leverage. He closed her legs, leaning his shoulders. Weren’t all women once? She had the calling of the Siren, a Lorelei, destroyer of men. Circe, sorceress, witch. A voice so steeped in magical chant and ecstatic, holy praise that God Himself would have seduced her just to listen as she reached her climax. In lilting jazzy riffs of moans and little pattering breaths; in low, agonized releases, in snarling, animal howls she was a singer. Awaiting a man to sing to. Thinking of the man she awaited, often in the nights, her fingers would wind their.