RH part 3

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Bernadette carefully rose from the bed of her erstwhile lover, Horatio, who lay, sated and vilely snoring on their bed of lust. She looked contemptuously upon his naked bloated body wrapped in a feather boa as he lay farting and grunting in his sleep. Now that the swinish oaf had satisfied his vile salacity upon her sapid anatomy, she could complete her plan. Bernadette pulled the ripped shreds of her favorite expensive black bombazine gown around her, the gown she had paid for in the taverns of the town by repeatedly selling her pliable flesh, and surreptitiously tiptoed from the room. Carefully and quietly pushing the thick, rigid, swollen oak door into it's tight, swollen frame, she leaned against it after it was closed, her pink petals wet and sorely swollen from the forceful swiving given her by Horatio's insistent tumescence.

She was sick of him. Sick of him using her for his immoral lust. Sick of his lusty immorality. Sick of his rigid virility. Sick, sick, SICK, unto death of his virile rigidity, of his poking and prodding of her tender flesh and shell-pink orifices. Sick of his guzzling otter bile before he forced his concupiscence upon her. Waddling as she Gently cradled her tender pussy, she crept on her little cat feet to her boudoir to change into a virginal looking high-necked grey gown before fading into the fog outside her French doors. Tonight she would seek her revenge for his casual use of her tender flesh and burgeoning accouterments.

She called for the carriage to take her to her new lover. He was no buffoon. He would protect her. He was no less than the Comte del Foutre himself! Reputedly a cocksman, however, she alone knew the truth. All the woman he had pricked meant nothing, NOTHING! to him, for he loved her, and her alone. He was hers, as she was his. Dry or dripping, she was his. She would go to him now, and he would begin interrogating privities concerning Horatio's plot to overthrow the government. She would not be just a whore, she would be a heroine!

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