The skin resists. The juice runs down her chin. Porn Immaterial materials. He’d just fuck off to bed. Just as she was about to utter their word, he stopped, and the fingers slid in and did their work. The lightest of touches. He hadn’t been kind. Her mouth is dry. One-way. She begs:
‘Fingers…’
‘Please?’
‘I need you… I need your fingers…’
Between his tongue-tip tease, at the holy-hot centre of her pain, almost imperceptible, to the insistent and relentless lateral thrubbing drum beat, also achieved with his tongue, she’d been taken to the edge of her orgasm for half an hour, and countless ‘almost-rans’, where she considered throwing herself off the cliff. Just as she was about to utter their word, he stopped, and the fingers slid in and did their work. A long-forgotten attractant, but no less potent. Tears picked up the pigment from her makeup- that he’d had to stipulate, out of irritated necessity, should not be
