Before the little death takes me, I look down and realise, the other girl, she’s just a fuck-toy now. I run my eyes around the flesh puzzle, trying to untwist its kinks. Dana looms above the girl, enraptured, one hand clutched upon her breast, artisanal fingers masticating greedily, the other, thrown behind her, dug into the sheets, a sutric pylon. I trace my hands within the decadence of skin, finding them grappled to hips like rubenesque gymnasium rings. My thrusts are parried with expert riposte, sweat covers us all and as I shiver, the girl is truly lost.