Hardly had her wildly fluttering tummy ceased its spasms before the satyr was climbing between her thighs to bury himself into her molten sex channel in one titanic thrust. His powerful lunges compressing her belly and forcing the air out of her lungs in a great whoosh of breath. Thereafter, the helpless countess could only loll limply beneath him, her hands clutching claw like at his great biceps as he mauled and pinched her plentiful breasts. Battering at her groins mercilessly for what seemed like an age. Eventually discharging thick gouts of boiling cream into her more times than she could remember, her entire abdomen aching with an all consuming pain so sublime that her own orgasms came like sharp punches into her guts, making her bark out her gratitude in a series of harsh, wracking sobs.
Perched up top on the driver's seat the old footman, Henrik, tried to close his ears to the lycanthropic grunting and shrieking coming from the coach.
At first he had thought that his mistress was once again being raped, such was the commotion, but soon after it had started he had heard the unmistakable sounds of her pleasure and he could only shake his head in wonder at the excesses of the 'quality folk'.
Perhaps he should tell his master, Count Maximilian, once they had arrived safely at the keep he thought. But then, recalling the easy way Prince Vulkan had suspended him by the scalp, brandishing his great dirk in his face, he decided that perhaps he should keep his mouth shut. Miserably, he hunched his wounded shoulder against the coming night airs and silently cursed the prince who had forbidden him to stop driving for any reason whatsoever.