Look at her. That same auburn mane is splayed out on the floor behind her head, the slicked-up crown flattened, loose strands stuck to her cheek. That face from the picture — the kohl-lined eyes, the rosy cheeks, the nude lipstick — is down between my legs now, mouth open wide around the head of it, pearls still catching the light at the base of her throat. She's got her chin lifted, nose almost pressed to the shaft, working it in slow greedy pulls, lips and tongue hosing the length of it back and forth, that wet slick sound she's making filling the room. The champagne satin of the dress is bunched up around her hips, the glossy striped skirt twisted and pooled, the thin sash riding up. One hand is fisted in my thigh, the other braced on the edge of the seat like in the photo, fingers digging in to hold herself steady. She's not looking at me, eyes half-lidded and cast down, tongue circling the head, spit drawing a thin string down the length of it as she swallows and pulls back for another pass. The satin's sheen is all I can see past her — gold stripes, that glossy fold over her thigh, the dark vase of white flowers blurred in the background — and the only thing in focus is her mouth, working it greedily, no fuss, no pretty poses. Just the wet slap of it, her hand clamping my leg, and the way she holds the head in her teeth before taking it deeper again. Clinical as a goddamn exam, except for the noise.