Kneeling on the marble step, she's got that rose-gold one-shoulder number hiked up, the fringe and sequin strands dragging over her thighs and catching the light as she works it. Hair slicked hard back off the face, no stray hairs, the bare shoulder and the open collar of the dress exposing the neck and collarbone. One hand still curled on the jeweled clutch, the other braced where it fits. Lips—dark, glossy—wrapped tight around him, cheeks hollowing, the mouth pulled down into a deep funnel as she swallows, saliva threading and dripping down her chin and onto the sequins at the bust, glistening there. Eyes half-lidded, lids heavy with that winged liner, looking up and over the top of his head with a flat, blank stare. The bodice of the dress stretched taut over the chest, the beaded fringe swaying with the working of her jaw and throat, drool and spit mixing down the front panel, the skirt's layered tassel-hem hanging loose around the hips while she bobs, head on a steady rhythm, the metallic strands flicking. Clinical, functional, wet, and loud with the squelch of it—no elegance, just the mechanics of the thing.