Temple of the Four Winds: d'ou vien le vent? continued...

Abetted by her subordinate, ( whose initial discovery we learned the 'how' of in an earlier installment)... The imbrued Abbess; had taken to the rare old art of Soixante neuf , in the style raffinee a la maniere Francaise...as a bird to flight, a duck to water, or as autumn leaves are blown madly before ones path in fulsome gusts alighting wither and hither they may.... we know not where!
The vigourous lapping, licking and probing of the Satyr's able tongue, teased her Quim , into a frenzied palpitation...extending...minor to major shocks and explosions...reverberating throughout her corpus, ringing within her fundament, like the clapper of one of the great bells of Notre Dame...like the beating of the wings of the ringdove in startled escape, like the pounding of the surf from a many crested sea....like the distant rumble of summer thunder.
The initial intensity of the activity, was so great a shock to her hitherto sleeping sensibilities, that she temporarily ceased her loving tendresse to his equipage, only to cry out with unbridled JOY!, at this delightful and profoundly moving new sensation; peppering her loins with delicious tremors and ructions , never felt before...
Continuing her dentilingual ministrations to his prepuce and elegant lacing, and gradually learning to tease that crucial arrow like design (pointing as it does, ) clearly, to his charmed urethral slit, ...oozing silvery dews...the Abbess worked like an indentured slave to achieve the orgasmic state of jouissance they all sensed was now imminent...
Wonderously,for the women; these ecstatic transports came in waves of pleasure that swizzled aout their nipples and nates in gleeful scatterings of ongoing sensation unending...like a rumbling, tumbling, series of rolling quakes and aftershocks.
Heloise made way for their intensities, by letting them take over the cot, and kneeling in a caressing ancillary capacity at its side, urged them on....
With the deft and powerful agility of an athlete, the satyr spun her about to a position prone beneath him, as she instinctively straddled his neck, ...and so placing the backs of her knees on his powerful shoulders; slick with the sheen of dripping salt...
He skillfully teased her trottoir and portals, with the mitred rock of his marbled spear, lingeringly temptingly about the tingling labia , desperately cloying outwards like a fleshy grasping beak....until any and all of her last restraint was gone... and until , finally, unable to bear the agony of absence longer...she wriggled and manoeuvred her undulant steaming socket with a simultaneous circular writhing of her pelvic girdle...at last and finally with much urgency and gnashing of teeth, engulfing its whole about the threaded perfection of his flaming bulb entire...