"Oh Tim, please fuck me. Fuck me hard. Shove that beautiful cock of yours all the way up my cunt!" As release came at last, she realized that she was ...weating profusely. The scent from her exertion was mixed with a sweet scent of perspiration. She kissed the pink egg, and wiped it off with a tissue. "Time for a shower, again." The shower finally helped release her remaining tensions, and she slipped into one of Jack’s old tee shirts, and slid into bed. "Enough of this," she thought, and drifted. When winter fell into spring in the year 1137, I was in Bordeaux—an unwilling ward of the Archbishop while my father went on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. Bordeaux was a thoroughly unimpressive metropolis. My sister Petronilla—two years younger than me at sixteen—and I spent our days in languorous confinement in the Archbishop’s chambers, reading, singing, and dreaming of being rescued from the boredom, and our nights at the Ombriere Palace. My thoughts were occupied by Jaufre’s. More

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