In a clearing we danced. An undulating tapestry of breasts and butts and cunts. Lost in a trance, we sweated and moaned under the searing eye of our arcane god.
Whilst prone in the bushes, the butterfly collector coaxed his mushroom cock and captured our antic sport on a mobile phone. As his string of jizz splashed the grass, he coughed like a fox. Alerted, we split and swiftly traced his stink.
Afterwards, in his memory, we edited the mobile footage into a documentary record of our day out.
