Angol
The Orphan waved the fingers of his right hand in what was barely understandable, in the swift complexity of his dexterity, as a deliberate symbolic pattern of digital movement that, recorded and decoded, would reveal the secrets behind what had just been conjured into being. For there, in their midst, wearing a secretive smile and darting a forked red tongue between the twin points of its sharply elongated canines, she sat. Sitting slightly forward upon the now apparently solid air through which she had so spontaneously emerged, her tail cracked back and forth over her shoulder in impatient impish glee. The diamond of its tip seemed to take a perverse delight in occasionally entwining about the slender waist of its owner, to faun upon the treasures concealed beneath the peachily purple furze of her perfectly perfect derriére. Laughing silently, tail now snuggling between her legs, she threw back her mane of reddish black hair, revealing small apple tight breasts, the pointy nipple cones thrusting skywards as, throat bared to the heavens, the glee-child, legs now thrown apart in abandonment, exposed the root of her desire.
