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@ -10,6 +10,11 @@ Tonight, she played drunk: a beer with the dogs, drinks made fizzy with champagn
Tonight, Motes played as hard as ever, letting that warmth that was building low in her belly be her guide as she latched onto a dancing partner, a solidly built mustelid of some sort — an otter? A mink? — who wound his way through the crowd in a fluid motion that was dancelike even when the music had stopped. It was a night for letting him dance closer and closer as the sets progressed, a night for letting him press a pill to her lips and beneath her tongue. It was a night for letting him push his whiskery muzzle up beneath her chin, letting him show her just how sharp his teeth were against her throat, for pressing close enough to feel just how thoroughly he shared in her excitement.
<figure class="float left">
<a href="/mp_02.png" target="_blank"><img src="/mp_02.png" alt="Motes and an otter. Or mink. Perhaps a fisher?"></a>
<figcaption>Art by <a href="https://roots.works" target="_blank">B. Root</a></figcaption>
</figure>
Tonight, she let him take her home. Tonight she let him pin her to the bed, paw on her shoulder and teeth on her throat. Tonight, she let him draw blood.
And then it was a night for sitting on his balcony and talking while the waves of whatever drug he'd given her continued to roll through her in languid pulses. "It is like someone is brushing the underside of my skin with satin in the best possible way," she said, and he laughed.