You watch him closely as slowly he lowers his head, his eyes slowly opening as his chin gradually moves downward. His warm smile now visible and unchanged, and there you make contact with the deep molten hazel of his brown eyes. Their inner light glowing, pulsing in sympathy and rhythm, echoing the aftershocks that twinge and spasm throughout his heavy cock, that still lays full, fat and swollen inside you.

“Fox” he says with gravity and fortitude, knowing he must withdraw, before again he gravely affirms: “Fox… you are forever beautiful…” and as the words solemnly slip from his beautiful lips, so does he gently withdraw.

His strong comfortable hands confidently support your thighs as you feel your stretched hips ease and tenderly return to the graceful posture that when upright would support your delicate frame and feline movement.

You see him stoop to pick up the lone abandoned towel and checking to feel for where it remains clean and dry, he then very respectfully places the soft cotton between your slowly closing legs.

Your thighs purr at the embrace, sensing the back of his tough hand, and you allow his firm fingers to stroke the length of your majestic leg until he reaches the limit, and finding the lonely ink-bled flower tattoo that decorates your ankle.

For a moment you feel held, secure in his hands and adored by his eyes, then the moment shifts as he reaches across you with his free hand to fold the fox fur throw across your naked body and cover you entirely.

He turns, still holding your ankle, your foot stroking at the warm underside of the fur. In his silhouette you see how powerful and broad his back and shoulders, the lean squeeze of his tight buttocks, and the strength residing in his loins and thick thighs.

Again you hear his deep voice: “You’re beautiful Fox, truly stunning, forever, for always…” and you glimpse him lean forward as he blows out the limp flame dancing aloft the almost exhausted candle.

And as the small camper van cabin turns black you feel his fingers unfurl from your ankle, and you sigh as you pull the fur around your shoulders, drawing your knees towards your breasts, fetal and fulfilled.

For the first time you notice the sound of the rain has ceased. No more percussion against the metal and glass. No more wind howling in the trees. No more thunder bellowing from up above.

You hear the door click, then close. The V-twin of a motorcycle engine revs and rumbles, a single headlamp sends a shaft of white light splitting through the rear door, sending straight line shadows to sweep their farewell across the ceiling and down the cabin sides, as the rider pulls away.