And suddenly Morrigana’s face became visible peering over Veronica’s shoulder.

Catching a faceful of Lance’s lashing come.

Slime streaked through the air.

Decorated Morrigana’s hair.

Galloped up the middle of Veronica’s bare back.

And Lance leapt through the air.

Landed on the fleshy stack.

Veronica was running her fingers along Morrigana’s ribcage. The two women rubbed their vulvas together, working up a heat through friction of their pubic fizz.

From Lance’s position, he could dip his dong wherever he felt it belonged.

His hand stroked the shank of his crank. Rubbing it again to randiness.

Refilling it with the dense blood of erection.

He stepped back to make his selection.

Which woman’s mouth?

Veronica’s or Morrigana’s?

Or whose ass seemed riper to the touch?

Whose tits the tastier!

Or cunt the most lush?

Or were the women equally well endowed with the attributes of flick and suck?

There was only one way to prove this.

Constance watched as Lance’s smile grew.

“Some frolics, I must admit,” the voice of the house dick assailed Constance’s ears. “Who’s the priest riding the giant dildo?”

“Sandor Kroughleigh. He’s an artist.”

“Oh. That must explain it.”

“Sometimes he dresses like that.”

“Somehow I thought so.”

“And you,” Constance spoke without emotion. “How do you feel about drinking on the job?”

The man drank in her face with his eyes. “I’m carrying.” He tapped twice with stiff fingers beneath his left armpit.

“What is it?”

“Browning.”

“How do I love thee, let me count the ways?”

“Automatic.”

“I see you take your work seriously.”

“I never read on the job either.”