The hand presses into hip crease, chases the form deep into the folds of the couch. A small voice says, stop. Lips and bristles prickle the neck. The hand keeps creeping. Flesh crawls and stays put. Stop, says the small voice, get out. But the ego-fog is intoxicated. Dull eyes, grown gross with mischief, grab and pry, working where the fingers won’t. Tobacco stink, sweat, and spittle stained skin press their inescapable vulgarities. Stop, the small voice screeches. Tongue, slick and prying, denying, doesn’t. Stop. The mind takes flight. The little voice is silenced. Nothing stops but her.