The Shape of Mephisto

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Through the murky blackness of the night, Mephisto caught sight of his quarry. His prey. The dull moonlight shimmered across her nakedness, a tender caress upon her firm and powerful body. Countless pale scars marked her years as an apex predator, a goddess of the hunt. No sane man could challenge her.

But Mephisto was no sane man when it came to love.

He approached with the swiftness of a charging bull, yet the stealth and poise of a tiger on the prowl. She knew nothing of his presence until he was upon her, and by then it was too late. He enfolded her in his immutable embrace and their deadly dance began, the heartless moon the only witness to their contest.

Through the night they wrestled, an even exchange between worthy warriors where at any moment either one could be declared the victor. Her boundless strength nearly rivalled his own, and her stamina was an endless well of passion and vigour. For once Mephisto had met his match, and the glory of their battle nearly popped his rock hard cock off as if his crotch were a tightly wound crossbow.

As the first rays of dawn swept over them, he felt a shift in the battle. No longer did she try to shake him off, no longer was this a contest for freedom. Now she fought for respect, and of that Mephisto had a great deal to spare. He ran his hand down her side, and her body quivered at the softening of his touch. Lower and lower his hand quested, until it nestled within the wetness of this great white beauty.

With the fight gone out of her, his other hand roamed across her supple belly. He paid special attention to her chest, taking his time to caress and cup each of her ample pectoral fins. Too much attention it turned out, for he tore the skin of his palm on her razor sharp scales. Oh well, he thought, it will grow back.

The taste of blood in the water drove her to a frenzy right as his expert hand brought her to climax. The first always went to the lady, because Mephisto was a gentleman from a bygone era. She thrashed and thrashed in his grasp, but he was merciless in his attentions.

When she finally slumped like a sexy piece of flotsam, he took the opportunity to swim round to her front. As a demon from the fiery pits of hell he’d never had much use for religion, but the only way he could think of to fuck a shark was in missionary.

She squirmed back to life as he entered her. “Buubo obuo bou,” he exclaimed into the water. She must have been into dirty talk, because she responded by nipping playfully at his arm. Quite painful actually, but Mephisto had endured much worse in the pursuit of love.

Again she reached climax before him, and she churned the water to bubbles with her thrashing. The flesh of his arm parted cleanly, like a prime cut of royal venison, as it tore free from his body. “Obuoboo buoouo ubou! Buoouou,” he shouted, but she was a selfish lover and was lost to her own passions. Oh well, he thought again, it will grow back, and kept humping away.

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