Zoe’s hair was long, long and her breasts were large, large. “Ooh, my prince,” she cooed, her voice quavering, her cheeks flushed with the heat of passion, “I adore you.”

Murgatroyd the Pirate was eighty-four inches of tightly toned masculinity. “Zoe,” he growled, his voice rough with a passion he wouldn’t — couldn’t! — let himself express. “It can never be.”

Zoe cried, big, fat tears running down her glowing cheeks like rivulets of fire. Murgatroyd’s blood beat passionately against his skin. His hands, big ugly things made by a sculptor who didn’t think small and liked veins, trembled at his side. He forced them to be still. “Don’t cry, little one,” he husked. “If there were any other way — if my love wouldn’t shatter you like a delicate porcelain teacup…”

She looked up at him through lashes drenched with tears. Her eyes were big, wide and blue, and filled with her passion for his love. “I don’t care! Better to be shattered than to live without you!”

“Zoe!” he cried, and lifted her up, up, up in his big, muscly arms, unable to control his passion any longer. “Let’s do it! Let’s totally bone!“

“Hurray!” cried Zoe, passionately.