Olivia's gaze lingered on Abigaille, her mind reeling at the sight of her best friend's unashamed lewdness, the way she'd swallowed the sausage, Kafka's special dish, made for her without a hint of hesitation, her throat taking it deep, her eyes rolling back in ecstasy.
It was as if Abigaille were a succubus, a creature of pure seduction, weaving her spell over Kafka with every sultry moan, every obedient act. Olivia, on the other hand, had gagged, her innocent throat rebelling against the sausage's girth, spitting it out in a humillating display.
The contrast stung, a sharp reminder of Abigaille's ease, her skill, and Olivia couldn't help but wonder: How does she do it? What did she mean by 'practice for the real thing?.'
The questions gnawed at her, but beneath them simmered a hotter, uglier feeling...jealousy.
