"I hope you don't think I'm rude. But, you know. A girl has got to watch out."

"I know. A lot of guys are like that. But I'm not like that. I'm different."

"Mmmmm. Your kisses are different."

"Babette?"

"Yum."

"You didn't tell me."

"Oh?"

"That you love me."

"Oh, yes, Channing. I thought you knew. Of course I do."

"Now spread your legs."

"Beg."

"I beg you to fuck."

"That is love. Will you be rough?"

"Enough."

"Do any other stuff?"

"You know I'm tough."

"Mmm. Better say please."

"Please spread your legs."

"Do you think I'm a tease?"

"Want me on my knees?"

"Good idea."

In Babette's fantasization, Channing Bentley IV found humility before her.

He sank to one knee. Like a gallant knight or a Prince Charming.

His honor was disarming.

He wouldn't take advantage of a maid.

Not that he wouldn't take her.

Make her.

Stroke her.

Poke her.

But he would not want to warp her.

He would fuck her honestly.

Fuck her straightforwardly.

Fuck her with honor.

"I'm honored," she imagined he said.

Kissed her hand.

Licked it.

Fondled her wrist.

Brought it down.

Between his legs.

Babette felt the hard thing between his legs. Like a wild thing.

Moving, with a life of its own. Scurrying somewhere within itself.

The thickness, the heft. The balls hobbling beneath the prick.

Babette could feel it through the material in his pants. And it sure felt real. So real her cunt peeled off another layer of skin as she humped with her rump against her bedpost.

Where was it?

His poetry.

Babette seized up the crinkled paper. Dripping with her cuntcream and Channing's jissom. She tried to read the verse once more.

But the ink had run.