He was beautiful, terrible and frightening, the beauty of a fine edged weapon, the perfection of a sword forged and wielded by a master in his craft. Stabbing deep, choking momentarily Fern can only suck harder swallowing with each thrust, breathing as he withdraws.  Whatever bile began to rise quickly suppressed as the swollen head forces its way past the point, embedding repeatedly in her throat.  The fluttering, gasping breath forced through flared nostrils pressing against his belly.<br/><br/>The stroke of his fingers seem to ease the passage, relaxing tensed muscles, her lips swelling from the friction of his passage.  Bringing a hesitant tentative hand to the marble of his thigh, her fingers splaying as roots in the soil in an action at once to save her breath and for something else.  Something far less understood as he pumps deep and hot into her throat*