She took the initiative and guided his fingers inside her and bore down. When he returned from pissing, he sat down with her. ‘I was not born to this. ‘Tell me the truth, Melusine. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear.
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