“On another subject, eef I may. I admire your blondy-blonde girlfriend-friend’s brassiere.”

“Oh, dear,” Constance said, slanting a glance toward the two women’s torrid tango. “I am afraid my friend Veronica is not wearing one, Arturo. You do mean bodice-do you not?”

“Ah, your devotion is already improving my language skills. What are those,” he worked his finger in a circular motion, “little hills on her chest? Ah. They are the tits.”

“Breasts.”

“Ah, yes. I will keep my mind on that.” Constance floated her eyes over Morrigana’s lurid form.

Her limbs were as warm over Veronica like a spider at feed on prey.

Castanets chattered above the white-gold and blue-emerald tiara in the woman’s dark hair.

The space between Morrigana’s crisp paps was revealed and framed by a gem-powdered bodice plunging deep below her waist.

Adorned by another emerald stone, Morrigana’s navel signaled the outlines of her whim.

Ultra-white foothills of the Venus Mount.

Pale opalescence of juices running within their Casing of absolutely colorless skin.

And the blue-green iridescence of eyes whose flame challenged that of the stones in her crown and whose daring was far greater even than the spareness of her gown.

Suddenly Veronica went down.

Her tongue lapped the place between Morrigana’s tits. Face suctioned the navel.

Teeth clattering upon the setting of the gemstone inset there.

Nose nudging the hitherto unseen stubble of sheared pubic hair.

“I don’t care to join in,” Constance mused. “Nor do I mind if you prefer to, Arturo Mondragon of- did you say Aragon?”

“Until I may claim the throne of Spain-my realms are in Miami and Nueva York now. I will join you, Constance, in watching the ladies suck. I fuck my seester Morrigana until she blistered already. But that is for little kids. I like the way your girlfriend Veronica kisses her.”