[Ell can't possibly get close enough, and like the obliging witch she is, Belladonna's hips lift and pull forward to allow him easier access. Her fingers scrape through his hair, along his jaw, pulling and pushing with her tongue as appropriate. She's dying of thirst and he is her spring, her oasis, a chalice from which to drink her fill. He can't get close enough, she can't get close enough. Her clothes feel tight and cumbersome. Suddenly the chair they sit in is an obstacle--but only because she can't open herself wide enough for him.
Even without any words, Belladonna is practically begging. Her body language leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.]
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Even without any words, Belladonna is practically begging. Her body language leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.]