<table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td>(http://www.dfwd20.com/photopost/data/522/medium/Human_Fighter1.jpg)</td><td><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: edwardian;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 2.65em;">Alfreic Slate, Soldier</span></span><br/><em>With M. Windower</em><br/></strong><hr/><br/>The soldier hungrily throttled the space between her legs, rubbing his index finger roughly through her dress.  He was panting like a dog now, crumpling beside her, kissing her abdomen, her hips, her rump.  On his knees, his hands reached up, pushing at her breasts and manipulating them with his large, firm calloused hands.  Then his hands roamed down her side, down over her ribs and her thighs.  He kissed at her pelvis, biting down through the fabric, wanting so very much to have her, to taste her, to fuck her with his tongue, and have his way with her.  He needed her, needed to have her juices paint his face like woad.  Now he resembled nothing of the stuff of man, but he was primordial, heaving like a famished wolf.  His hands were hooked like talons, his eyes were slits of fire, his cock was burning because it was so hard.  And he looked at her wantonly, intoxicated by her perfume, enchanted by her voice and mesmerized by her sight.<br/><br/> "A present?" he murmured distractedly as his hands reached under her dress, and traveled up her knees and to her thighs.   "... One must be weary of your gifts, my love."<br/><br/></td></tr></tbody></table>