His tongue swirled the edges of her lust cave rapidly, like a slimy, jittery worm on its second espresso. Involuntarily, she squealed. She was a newly born piglet, glistening with the damp afterbirth of love.
“This is wrong,” she cooed breathlessly. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Shut up,” he said petulantly and slapped her right tit, leaving a pink handprint. She watched as her nipple became erect from the sting, rising above the pastoral landscape of her areola. It reminded her of Isengard.
—page 97
