The stringy, twisted mustache of Jean-Paul glistened and gleamed from his sensual efforts. The bristles in his slender nostrils winked in the moonlight as he thrusted, his powerful, sinewy muscles knotting beneath the salmon-colored flesh of his buttocks.
"Arg," argged Jean-Paul.
"Arooo?" Georgette howled questioningly. Jean-Paul's pink-cheeked virility made her eyes roll back in her head a full 360 degrees.
"ARGGGG!" he argged again, sinking his canines into her ample brow and vacuuming up a good amount of her headflesh into his mouth. "Enuh tah. Tih uh feh ot a ur-shihuh urgahzah ih yor oboree feeh lih."
She bucked her hips and squeezed her powerful, tree trunk-like legs around his torso. Her bellow would echo through the piney forest for a very long time, bouncing around in the ears of future sylvan lovers for years to come: "LET LOOSE YOUR PEARLESCENT RIVER, YOU BRAWNY RAPSCALLION!"
-- from my forthcoming erotic novel
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