Eros roared, like the emotion had been thrashing to get out of him, and he bucked harder into me with its exclamation. At last, I looked up, and I tell you now, there is nothing more worthy of being immortalized by a sculptor’s hands than a work of art like me, oiled and adorned, being pounded into by the winged god of fervent fucking himself. Eros roared again and threw his head back, meeting my gaze in the mirror. That was the image worth being immortalized, with both our faces framed in the glass, and his wings spread wider, as his cock vanished within me, and mine bounced its approval.
