And just like that, the mood was ruined.  Gerlinde sucked on, injected the syringe, and got a bit sullen.  Yes, their was the depression of the plunger, sending the local anesthetic streaming through Lisle's right hand to appreciate.  There was a thrill - another barrier of experimentation broken.  Just thinking of what she would do that hand made Gerlinde's lips fix like hot wax.<br/><br/>And yes, there was that sublime taste: The Botticelli 'Birth of Venus' was now at the fore of Gerlinde's mind; her mouth was drawing on the corals and ivories and seafoams invested in that portrait - on the wetness that was clam shell, fertility, ocean, woman.  She teased the invertebrate flesh, stenciling it with her tongue, and she more than enjoyed it.  Gerlinde gorged on it, and in the shudderings within Lisle's vault.<br/><br/>But behind the cool stained glass of her blue eyes, demons of spite were stringing their bows and taking aim at poor, transfixed Venus.  Gerlinde was beginning to spite Lisle's recalcitrance.  She wanted the girl to spend again.  She wanted lewdness to pour from her.  She wanted that power - the power to tear her apart with pleasure.<br/><br/>Resignedly, she sighed and suckled a bit longer.  Then, with saliva trailing their strands down from her lips and her leather sleeves stroking Lisle's thighs, Gerlinde rose up.  She grabbed the next needle and injected Lisle's hand.<br/><br/>"Please what, kitty?" Gerlinde growled.  Yes, the girl would be a cat - not a recalcitrant girl.  Not for longer.  Gerlinde would take her apart - with piercing, penetrating tools if not with the womanly wetness of her mouth.<br/><br/>"Please what?  Don't beg God."  Gerlinde gathered a foot kindly and injected it.  Then the other.  "Beg me."