So I wouldn’t be the Old Man of the Mountain, father of all assassins, but rather would I be his friend the poet who sat under a tree by the fountai... in the royal courtyard, paid a monthly stipend in gold with which to drink and think about sex and to write about thinking and drinking.After all who now can recall the political reasons or pure greed which motivated the drug addled murders of the hashishins- while every one even now recognize at least two lines of the poet’s verse. “A loaf of. That alone was something she grew to crave. But every time that monster went off in her, and she felt the heat and strength of his seed fill her to overflowing, the concept that he might be overwhelming the defenses of one of her eggs brought on an orgasm that had nothing to do with physical stimulation of her sexual organ.Of course later, in the clear light of day, the idea of a nineteen-year old boy actually impregnating her was less joyful, hence her decision to restrict his access when she. More

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