I've fapped to Anna a number of times. I regret nothing.
I'll occasionally wonder what it's like to talk to her for awhile, using my beginner's poker skills to maintain a straight-face while she gurgles and giggles and blows spit bubbles. I'll smile when I think she's flirting or telling me about her hobbies, which invariably include eating, singing Tangled songs and laughing at inappropriate moments. I'll pat Olaf and tell her how beautiful it looks (but not as beautiful as she does).
Then, when I've reduced her to a shuddering wreck of infatuation, I'll kiss her. Softly, at first, looking into her Mongol eyes and telling her how hot this is. Slowly, we'll begin to passionately embrace each other, reveling in our retarded lust, succumbing to our long-suppressed desires.
I'll carry her to my bed, kissing her pale-white skin and caressing her troglodyte face while I maintain that eye-contact with those soulless, dumb eyes of hers. She knows she's mine, now. As do I.
As we consummate our lust, our bodies sweating, my thrusts matching hers, her drool falling onto my stomach as she rides me, not entirely sure why it feels so pleasurable for her but unable to hold back even if she tried to, her moans would become Nolthundra-like roars of glorious, uncontained climax before she fell on top of me, cooing in my ear in that unintelligible language of hers. I would erupt furiously inside her, impregnating her mongol eggs with my seed, creating the Sixth Spirit.
We would lay there for awhile, breathing heavily, giggling like schoolgirls who've discovered something new and forbidden, before regaining our stamina and going again. And again.
