Tiaras and Tricorns: Angelina Tarrant vs Madeleine Citronelle (Apex Qualifier)

[Malkavia]

Madeleine had once read that life is perpetually past-tense. Feel a sensation, entertain a thought, exist—By the time you know it's going, it's already passed. She became acutely aware of this feeling of a moment slipping past in the seconds following the crash.

A dozen sensations passed through Madeleine. Relief so thick it made Madeleine sigh until her back shook: the weight was off her knee. Pride huge enough to make her face glow: how many hours had she needed to spend training to prepare her slight body for a power move like that? Satisfaction, as she felt Angelina crumple.

The Marauder's left leg slid off Madeleine's arm while the right crooked over her shoulder. She stroked the right leg, gently, on its outer side, starting at the knee and brushing her nails down until she felt the swell of Angelina's hips. She wanted to breathe, to savor this—to count the pores on Angelina's face, to etch the pressure of her thighs into a memory she could pluck months hence, to peer around the arena and take in the light and the crowd.

"Don't, says the rat." Her left hand slid down inside of Angelina's thigh and settled on her peach-fuzz pussy. "That word came so easily to you—popped out without thinking. Don't hurt me."

Then the moment flicked by, and much too soon, Madeleine knew it was time for the next scene. She breathed out through her nose and scooched away from the Marauder. Angelina's legs slid down and settled on top of Madeleine's, whose own legs lowered to rest on Angelina's navel. From there, she grabbed each of Angelina's ankles and threaded them over Madeleine's thighs—over one, under the other—with the Marauder's ankle holding the lock in place.

"You try so hard to hide, it would be cute if it wasn't heartbreaking." Madeleine's voice was velvet but projected to reach the seats. She leaned forward, her eyes never leaving the lovely naked thing between her legs, and grabbed Angelina's pale, limp wrists. Then, she lifted her legs, pulling Angelina up and up until her pussy and navel were splayed out for the crowd while her neck pressed into the mat—the Golden County Pillory.

The GCP

"That said. I'm...past caring what you want." Madeleine smiled, breathing easily as she put her back into the submission. "I think we all are."

[Monsy]

Angelina experienced through a misted lens. Lights were double, then triple, then for a moment single, then unaligned into a spinning motion-sickness soup. She didn’t feel her body. It didn’t exist, and her peripherals were a smudge swiped around in a circle. Any action that did fire was a conscious inner command, where her head voice spoke it, and the message travelled down her spine, arm, then into the ring finger that twitched.

She thought of the word ow. Three seconds later, the breath meant to enunciate was creaked out in a sore groan. Her eyelids wobbled. She can feel the warmth of Madeleine’s hand, and that it was between the legs she couldn’t feel. Her hips twitched.

When both heels hit the canvas, the sensation was a sound inside a hollow train tunnel, coming from far away, then faded. There was a hunch that her body was being manipulated, from the same direction, but she couldn’t tell where or what. Her wrists felt it too, but she still couldn’t find where exactly they were. Then her body careened to the sky and the lights became a galaxy of silver stars. She went up silently and like a worm with how fluid she peeled off the canvas. Her sweat-covered belly became the place to pant, still just as defined, but buried in red blotches.

Shame made her shiver and blush. The submission now tore into her legs, which became a noise that got louder and louder. A simultaneous head rush made her feel like falling. It just took a few seconds more, then her unconscious bubble would pop..

“NYAAAGH!!” Tension ripped into her kneecaps which became slingshots awaiting to fire. The muscle in her thighs and the bones in her shins were searing and feeling pinched. And the way she awoke was like from a nightmare, sweating, feeling gross, and screaming. Her heart jumped palpitations while she choked on air to render the next cry silent.

“...ghk… nge…” Angelina swallowed twice. Her eyes closed, but her mouth was open to breathe and twist, with faint wrinkles on her forehead and cheek. “N-Nyahh-ah!” Shoulders. Her shoulders were also seared. Together, they made her flex her midsection out before she went limp again, in some short-lived escape attempt, happening again and again every couple seconds.

The referee was right there, on their knees, making an inquiring hand gesture. “Angelina! Do you submit?!”

But she didn’t register the call, rather, she started to make a progressively loud sob, idly shaking her head side to side, almost shoulder to shoulder. The referee took this as a no, but Angelina was merely writhing in the one way she still had motion to. But the crowd relished this -- in what looked to be Madeleine’s crowning moment. They cheered, hungry for what they anticipated. A long, drawn out submission from a sobbing pirate, ripped straight from those ugly vocal chords.

And with how Angelina was biting her lip and whimpering… She just might.

[Malkavia]

It was a beautiful moment, marred only because Angelina's body got in the way of Madeleine's view of her face. But she could watch her knees, instead—watch them tremble, imagine how it must have felt with all that weight hanging on over-flexed joints. Agony. Though, she could imagine worse. What if they were perpendicular to Angelina's knees? Snapped, like two broken necks. If Madeleine could have done that to her, would she?

She readjusted her grip on Angelina's wrists, tightened her core, and lifted her legs another few inches. Just how many hours of investment did those beautiful legs represent? Angelina was not just a combat athlete. She was a combat athlete who soared, who reveled in the freedom her speed and dexterity had earned for her. That highly skilled mobility looked like a lifetime's work. What kind of person would take that away from her? A monster, of course. Madeleine sighed. She could never do it. Not like this.

It would have been satisfying, though, especially in the moments after. Imagine watching the layers of grief wash over her, reflected in her face—the shock, the horror. Denial at first, then sheer terror and pain. Maybe it would make her nauseous, if she could still think through the pain, could still hold her broken future in her mind. Would some of that manic glow in her eyes finally dim? As Madeleine imagined, she felt the crowd buzz, a physical force in the mat like a bass chord. She smiled. Reality was always cast in a milder key than her fantasies, but at least the rat was miserable. Shaking and quivering and sobbing, and no one in the whole wide world wanted to see her free.

—

That's what Madeleine thought, anyway. In fact, while much of the ring had turned on Angelina ever since she had dared to threaten one of its own, there were holdouts — misfits, rulebreakers and contrarians. Punks who wouldn't root for the rich girl if it was to save their mother, pirate marauders who would sail and die on the ship while flashing their two-finger Jolly Roger salute, and technical connoisseurs who simply admired the Scarlet Terror's Moonsault style.

Serilda was one of these. You wouldn't know just from looking at her that she was a member of the pirate crew. She was in her fifties, hair long and silver. Nothing fancy. In fact, she needed a trim, and the split ends gave the tip of her hair almost a matted look. She wore no makeup, had a crooked nose, and dense, black eyebrows.

What did she see in Angelina? Maybe a younger version of herself, a girl who had run away from home and tried with several of her friends, successfully, to make it in the Indie Rock scene, where she'd made her mark writing ballads about love and drugs and blood and horses. Maybe she just saw a fist smashing something golden and cold and rotten. Either way, she'd been keeping up with the Marauder's career, and this? Angelina could do better than this. She was in a position to prove it, too, and if there was one thing she had learned in her life, it was never to miss an opportunity to give a fellow bitch a good kick in the ass.

She stood up and cupped her hands around her mouth. "Hey you bow-legged KIT-T-T-TTYYYYYYYY!" Her voice trilled and cracked on the word, a rocker's belt. A whole section of the crowd shifted to look at her, and even over all the cheering, her words carried out to the ring. "There's treasure aplenty on the deck—but. Not for long!" Fate must have meant for Serilda to be here, because it put her right next to that preppy little phony with the red skirt and the saccharine little furball teddy bear. She grabbed it and gave it a yank. A rumble passed through the crowd, angry, hot! She glowed on the energy, and howled like a wolf, "AWOOOOOOO!" And tossed it overhand into the ring. A hush fell threw the crowd as it arced, fell, and landed a few feet from Angelina's face.

Serilda leaned out at the both of them, grinning wide and belly laughing, and screamed at Angelina with a spray of spittle: "RIP HER THROAT OUT BITCH!"

She barely noticed the pure death Madeleine was aiming with her eyes, while in a moment of pique she let her grip on Angelina's right wrist go loose.

[Monsy]

Even when tree trunks don’t break, the inner layers crackle and its vibrations coarse and pulse. They were silent, but she got intimate with the sound of snapping before it happened, turning her ghost-white. A retch came up, and she swallowed. She started counting, mouthing, but not really making the proper sounds. Each one a day she’d be out of action. One. Two. Three. Four. Cry some more. And that she did.

The last thing she wanted was distraction. Like being asked if she was okay after a fall, it's always the call-out that causes the breakdown. And it’s that opening shout that makes Angelina angry, to a small but then rapidly growing degree. How many times must she bite before the kitty moniker is shoved inside a box and closed forever -- or beat them with razor wire, tear up their homes and take every damn heirloom. She wanted this old bitch’s head, even if by all other eyes, they only saw her puffed up, red and still choking on misery.

She’d have their head. Madeleine’s head. All their heads.
Then.
Plop.
A shooting star had crashed upon her ship. Its silent strike played opposite to the jeers that came out next, continuous and with popcorn projectiles. Angelina gasped and her anger melted. Codswaddle struck the same chords of her long-wanted bed. A popsy that didn’t melt, after all this sex and violence. She wanted it, and still had tears in her eyes when she started fighting for it.

Angelina curled her tummy, leaned towards her hip and brought the freed arm over. First, she weaselled her way under Madeleine’s thumb, with her index and middle pushing underneath the thumb pad. They then hooked, squeezed, pulled to open the grip, then tried to yank the captured arm free.

Her first and only follow-up was to capture Codswaddle in a two-armed embrace and death-squeeze. The stuffy’s torso masked her face, wiped the tears and swiped the spilled spit. She snorted in the remaining snot from the prior sob. The gold in her hands gave her comfort, and felt so rightfully hers.

[Malkavia]

Codswaddle had mahogany fur and wore a glittering golden cape, all of which stood out strikingly against the blue of the canvas. Already, Madeleine had learned to associate that shade of blue with the smell of her sex, with sweat, with saliva and tears—not to mention the blood that flecked and dotted the mat with black. Filthy. Codswaddle belonged on a bed, on a shelf, behind glass or in someone's arms, somewhere safe and sanitary, and—

Angelina's hand slipped out of Madeleine's. That was the shock that for half a second stopped the breath in the Countess's throat. When she curled over, forced her fingers into Madeleine's grip, and pulled her other arm free, however, that breath began again with a growl. What was to be most infuriating move of the whole sequence, however, came next, when Angelina grabbed Codswaddle and pressed him to her face.

The Countess's response was methodical. She grabbed Angelina's ankles, then lowered her legs to the mat. For an instant, this would release the pressure on Angelina's knees. Then, Madeleine would bend Angelina's right knee and pull her leg straight so that it formed a cross with her left leg. From there, the transition into a figure-four leglock would be simple. She just placed her hands on the mat and bridged.

Leglock

As she worked, she spoke, low and tense with quiet control. "You see? You have needs. And hurt. And fear. You want to be held." It was hard to tell if Angelina was sobbing, since the stuffy covered her face, but she looked like she could be, like she might be bawling underneath Codswaddle's uncritical embrace, and that was enough. It made Madeleine's heart ache, and that made her eyes glisten with fury. "But you're dirty, Angelina. Worse, you're making Codswaddle dirty. He doesn't want you, and I'm going to take him away."

The Countess breathed steadily, her toned stomach rising and falling like waves under the thin fabric of her gear. Then she flexed her hips, aiming to lift Angelina's knot of legs further off the mat. Whatever pain or splinters sent through Angelina, it could never be enough.

[Monsy]

Angelina learned his name through Madeleine’s shouting. And from that frame onward, she wanted him dearly. The fucker was named. Above all suits, she found that precisely adorable — and had her weeping on the inside. The kind she only let play inside her spaces, with triple locked doors, blinds closed and the right folk song to sing along to. Like Thistlebro, Codswaddle seemed to be more than cotton. But comfort, an attachment, a bond of sorts that was given away as a gift. It could all be a ruse, a snakey propaganda ploy to connect with the snake-loving crowds, but she didn’t care. The fur, cape and the bead on his nose meshed with her chin, nose, mouth and sweaty forehead. Her lower-lip chattered to trembling legs, where the reddened blush had spread from the lower-thigh and upper shin, with the kneecap resembling a tomato.

Madeleine proved swift. Too swift on the ground. The buds in her knees and ankles were filled up by sand, and they hurt more to be untangled than simply being let go. At least she was flat, for a second. Then when Madeleine dropped, and this dull axe started cinching into the pocket of her kneecap, Angelina sat up instantly and belted a scream into Codswaddle’s belly.

“C-CODS-SY…W…WAH…!!” Her voice choked and petered into a high-pitched squeak trying to belt his name. Her back arched in tandem, and Angelina collapsed to her shoulder blades. All those terms and loose meanings dogged on at the worst time. She felt her outer skin crumbling at a rapid rate. She didn’t know what to do, how to handle — or what her witty comeback was. But she could toss and twist onto her slender shoulders. She can sob so her sounds were timed to a metronome’s rhythm, muffled into the treasure. She can continue arching on the canvas, raising her bruised-laden, smooth, shiny tummy that quivered from the throbbing, making her sick.

And, she can confide in Codswaddle, and mouth discreetly into him. I want to give. I want to give. I want to give. Stop-Stop-Stop. Please. I’m dirty, I’m gross, I’m whatevah ya want me to be, just stoooo…. Then fade, with Madeleine’s rise spurring a sudden spasm that went through her leg that levied her eyes loose inside her skull. They slipped back, amidst a deadly torrent of panting. Her back was flat and the referee counted.

“ONE!”
“TWO!”

Angelina flexed her abdominals to sit up, but she immediately drifted back down onto one shoulder, released a sigh and was flat a second time. She started to endlessly inhale, and hold it, until her chest ached and throat knotted. Again, the referee counted.

“ONE!”
“TWO!”
“TH--”

And again, she flexed into an up-right stance, now propped by a singular arm while she held Codswaddle under her chin. Glassy-eyed, faint and glancing downward, with a twisted frown dunked in quivering misery, she replied… “He’s…Mine.”

[Malkavia]

In a better world, it would have been true. Beneath all the razorwire, there was a girl in Angelina who would have made a good mommy for the stuffy, and it would have felt good to be the smiling benefactor who says it's my gift. Imagining that world made something glow faintly in Madeleine's tummy, but then she blinked and saw the cum and blood and sweat speckling Codswaddle, and she remembered where that cum had come from.

Keeping one hand on the mat, she rolled both of them on their sides, then leaned forwards and grasped Angelina by a fistful of hair. Her scalp was hot and wet, and Madeleine looked down at her unsmiling, though she couldn't catch her eyes. Those were still buried in Codswaddle. The new position stretched Angelina's side without releasing the figure-four.

"Self-deception is a child's way of dealing with reality. Cute but impotent." Maxdeleine pulled harder on Angelina's scalp and flexed her hips, which pressed her rival's ankle against her groin and folded her knee the wrong way. "Face reality, sweet. You're going home with me. No tiara, no stuffy. You're going to be empty-handed, limp, collared, alone. Unloved. Frankly, with the person you've proven yourself, you won't even be a satisfying weekend trophy. The only worthwhile part will be discarding you." Madeleine's voice was cool, in spite of how harsh her words were. Just slightly, she loosened her grip Angelina's hair and ran her thumb over her forehead "...It breaks my heart to say that, Angelina. It hurts more than it should. I'd thought you were someone...where holding you made me proud. Made me feel delight."

Fury continued to simmer in Madeleine's chest, and it showed in the way she continued to wrench and thrust against Angelina's body. But as she continued to speak, her eyes shone. Honey-sweet. She smiled, if dimly. "It's not too late. Kitten. We can fix what you did if you just say you're sorry. Like you mean it."

[Monsy]

Horripilation looked pale, wet and fresh on her skin when she was snatched into Madeleine’s clasp. The hand, about the size of her own, made her wince but had a tinge of familiar sensual comfort. It was dumb to clutch to that thought. But it was a sensation, and for a change, one that she didn’t hate. She craned her neck to meet it, flexed, but at the same time, let herself hang in Madeleine’s power, where if Madeleine released, Angelina would certainly snap back into the canvas.

The unsmiling, lecturing aura plucked her nerves like snapping piano wire. The nerves curled into coils, and made a small dying pain like the kind inside her hollow chest. She can picture herself in the mirror, as lonesome as that is, and how she reflected her looks. The mirror wasn’t hers, of course. Neither was the house she was in. Its occupants, merely one floor below with the faint sounds of clacking cutlery trickling through the walls. They wined and dined as the Marauder defaced, stole or ripped photos, pictures and paintings for the hell of it. A wedding ring, stolen, along with a golden necklace and a miniature safe at the bottom of a wardrobe before sneaking a look at herself in the mirror. She looked fuckin’ great, and that’s all she cared for.

Yet, somehow, here she was, thinking about it. Madeleine made you feel ugly and swallowed by guilt for crimes you truly didn’t feel remorse for, and a self-consciousness that was dormant. She didn’t know why or how. But she made your fate sound worse than it really was, like some plucked childhood fear of abandonment that she didn’t have. You wanted to fix it, and above all, Angelina wanted to hide. So she squeezed Codswaddle tighter, with her lower-lip chattering into a whine.

The out looked her in the face. Breaking her heart. Somehow, felt awful and like her own just got squeezed and rung for all its juice. The well of emotion fizzled to the top as it went on, sentiments like proud and delight and the disappointment they symbolized. She put her eyes into the stuffy and started to sniffle and cry quietly into it -- because looking Madeleine in the eye when she uttered the next words required something she didn’t possess.

“I-I’m sorry… I’m sorry… P-Please... Just... s-stooop…" Angelina ran short of breath, and inhaled audibly, then held it to finish... "I-I’m sorry Mm-M-Ma..de..l-leine…”

[Malkavia]

There had been a moment of uncertainty. Madeleine's otter had soared through the air into the pirate's clutches. The Marauder's wrist got loose, and she broke the finisher submission. A belt in the machine had snapped. The gray-haired bitch in the seats howled at the moon. It all seemed primed to explode. But in spite of all that instability, nothing essential changed because nothing essential could change. They were who they were. Madeleine had been right.

She watched it happen. Pain and helplessness had made Angelina listen. She had covered her face with the stuffy, but Madeleine could still see the way her tummy heaved and clenched. Not just from pain but. Sobs, too quiet to hear. It was ugly. Not so ugly that Madeleine couldn't enjoy it. Her eyes lidded, her lips curled, her chest heaved with satisfaction.

Still, it was also painful and ugly. Angelina's grip got tighter and tighter on Codswaddle, and her skin turned fuzzy with goosepimples. Madeleine could see her trying to escape into the toy in her arms. But the words were inside her. Coiling. And from the way Angelina was responding, they had struck home. In a way, it was like sex, agony building tighter and redder and more desperate with each heave of her chest, until it all went loose and she let it slip. I'm sorry Madeleine.

Speaking of sex. It took a strong effort for Madeleine to suppress a moan herself. Those words were golden and hit her right in the tummy. She flexed her hips one last time, cresting into the submission as a wave of delicious feeling erupted in her core, then sparkled in her toes and fingers. She breathed out slowly and with relish.

Was it true, though?

It wasn't exactly a submission, was it? Not in the technical, legal sense. There had been no bell.

Madeleine had gotten got by this kind of kitten play once already.

Still. Even if Madeleine could have beaten Angelina into submission, it wasn't what she wanted. Instead, she released Angelina's hair and rolled so that the two of them wound up belly-down on the mat. The next bit required quick movements so as not to give Angelina an opening, but Madeleine knew what she was doing. She unhooked her legs and got on top of Angelina, planting a hand on her back and a leg across the pits of Angelina's knees. Moving with purpose, she snatched the leather strap that Angelina had previously used to collar the Countess.

Taking that thick black ribbon, from Angelina's own costume, and cinching it around her ankles until it was tight enough to really hurt, was one of the most satisfying moments of the match. It was important to pluck the kitten's teeth, and to do so in a way the audience could see, and that Angelina could feel. When she released the tie and watched her feet fall to the mat, Madeleine felt really wet for the first time since her last eruption.

Finally, the Countess lay on top of Angelina's naked body, snaked her arm between Angelina's arms and neck in a chokehold, and rested her blonde head just over the Marauder's ear, forehead pressed into Codswaddle's shoulder. As she leaned in, her face pushed between the stuffy and the pirate. The air was thick with the smell of strawberry and cum.

"That was good." Her free hand stroked Angelina along her head. Her hair had become tangled, and Madeleine's fingers got snarled, but she gently and slowly tugged them through. A lock of Angelina's red hair fell in front of her cheek. "I could tell that it came from your real feelings. That honesty makes me very happy."

As she stared down at Angelina, her smile was as warm and intimate as she felt—as if it really was just for the two of them and not the thousands watching. Her free hand reached across the mat and came to rest on a long, scarlet silicone cock. It could have been awkward putting on the strap while straddling Angelina, but she managed to slip one leg, then the next into the harness. As she cinched it tight, she enjoyed the cool pressure of the rubber against her pussy.

Finally, Madeleine released the choke, just long enough to take another one. She rolled and seated herself in front of the pirate. One leg slipped over one pale shoulder; the other wrapped Angelina's neck, forming a figure-four. Codswaddle sat between them, as Madeleine locked a loose triangle choke. Her hands rested on Angelina's head, weaving through the hair to caress her scalp.

Triangle Choke

As she continued speaking, her voice raised a level in severity. Just a notch. "I'd like to see your face." The choke gave Madeleine leverage to peel Angelina away from Codswaddle. Angelina could either move the stuffy out of the way or turn blue as Madeleine tightened her legs and squeezed her throat. When she gave in, the strap would be waiting for her—her own toy, reflecting her distorted face back at her in its glistening red surface as it portruded from between Madeleine's legs. It was curved and thick, and its flared glans smothered the length of her face from chin to forehead. In the pause to follow, Madeleine would add, "You're going to want to get this wet. For your own sake. Rat."

[Monsy]

The possibility of tapping out didn’t leave just because the submission was gone. Her legs were kaput, to where any modicum of pressure put an itch and compounding pain from any bends, pressures, cold breaths, warm ones or any free-fall stationary position. It just sucked. Numb. Full. Weak. She laid on her tummy, though she wanted to create a ball, hold her knees and Codswaddle. But she didn’t have four arms. Madeleine already took her back by then, tied her ankles in a way that yanked newfound high-pitch yelps from Angelina’s irritated throat -- exasperated by Madeleine’s chokehold. Angelina gasped, loudly, coughed, but her main concern became keeping Codswaddle tight. That if she fell asleep, some form of rigor somnia would preserve her grip on the gold, so Madeleine would need to wake her or destroy Codswaddle trying to take it. To that, she clawed into his fur.

She felt the evil benevolent stroke on her hair and cheek. Warm -- soothing and tingles down her spine into shivers and dancing nape hairs. Her eyes averted, then, the total opposite direction when she reminded Angelina of her apology. It made her sick. Genuinely motion sick. So she rested her chin into the choke. Everytime she took a breath, it was like scratching through a million tiny rocks and gravel. Just pass the fuck out, she thought, but sooner or later, the release prevented it.

“G-ga-huhhh!..” Her breath raced in, and she wasn’t ready for it. Her lungs itched and Madeleine getting off made Angelina raise her hips into the air, just a tad. Codswaddle was used against her windpipe, and stroked it, with her feet kicking and ears ringing. Frigates and brigs danced in her otherwise loopy perception. She felt increasingly numb in the way of hypnosis. Her touch sensory amplified by ten, but her strength also divided by ten. Then, again, she choked.

“Mm…megh…kkguuu…” It had a stronger sex scent, a faint citrus. Madeleine’s strong legs squeezed her jawline and sort of pushed against her cheeks. Codswaddle was lowered into her chest. Her stare was weak and wandering still, and Madeleine’s voice, again, made her look down, with the entire dick against her face, begging for a sopping mouth. Sure enough, Madeleine asked. Demanded. And Angelina had subconsciously lost some colour. “I…I…” There was something she wanted to say. But her mouth was dry. Strangely, she found her lips loose, tongue on her bottom lip like a dog. She squeezed her thighs together as warmth suddenly built inside her sex, and she could consciously feel herself tingling, stirring and feeling filthy. Rat. She shivered.

Just… Do ya best, right? Angelina, who had stared at the dick’s girth and size for a straight five seconds with a wide stare, fear and a shrinking posture, now poked her tongue out more to lap at its base, then slowly drag up the shaft. Her eyes closed, and she pressed on the mat to elevate her shoulders, higher, and forming a partial tongue coil around one side. Her lips gingerly peppered the scrotum and tip with first date kisses, and worked her way up to putting her mouth around it. She suckled on it for a small pop, then gulped. She went down, slowly, and had her mouth spread into an open O. Her face steadily got redder, burned, from ear-to-ear as her heart pounded and her brain whisked away anything that wasn't this dick. About half-way, she bit the thing by accident, gagged and made a small cough that jarred the strap-on slightly. Drool leaked down its shaft in what gave its length a glisten. Angelina breathed deeply, working up strength into her neck again before descending to the base. The whole thing, taken, where its tip rested in her throat as an overflowing mouthful of scarlet dick. She peeped up, just for a second, yearning for some sense of positive feedback before trailing off to stare at Madeleine’s harness.

… mgh.