There is much Gerlinde can see in Lisle's eyes:  Passion.  Afterglow.  A quaking, leaping arousal that kept her from entirely settling.  These things, Gerlinde glows in kind to see.  But Gerlinde does not need to look deep to see something that puts a fish hook in her prostate on a line long and hard up to her brain, and tugs.  She sees distance - the distance of memory.<br/><br/>It immediately brought a bitter taste to her mouth; mades her aware of the dingier, sour components of the taste of sex that the both of them are sauced so heavily in.  Her lips twitched before they could fall from their serene and sultry smile into a scarred frown.  She hid the displeasure - more for Lisle kitty's sake than for hers.<br/><br/>Gerlinde inhaled deep to clear her palate of that bitterness.  Her breasts rubbed in generous, tingling languor on Lisle's, sopping up the kitty's heartbeat.  The feeling was ill-received; it made Gerlinde now feel spiteful.  She chastened herself while quietly stroking Lisle puss' hair:<br/><br/>What did she expect?  That the girl would see her as some lovely port in a storm?  That Lisle would embrace her as preciously as she embraced the singularly soft mote that Lisle was?  She had been deluding herself: She<em>was </em>the storm.  There was nothing soft here.  Nothing precious.  Just passion and death - just fire and ash.  The Stalag was not an artist's kiln.  It was a crematorium.<br/><br/>"Me too."  The smile she showed was too raw and all too brief.  A sickness slithered through her narrow belly like a pit viper, fat and poisonous.  She continued stroking Lisle's hair, continued to rock her hips in a restless listing motion that kept the bar of her penis stretching Lisle's interior hard and wide, but she leaned a bit away from the press of their breasts - from that all-too-present heartbeat.  She looked down, finding something else to look at beside Lisle's face, but not before her eyes moistened fit to spill over.<br/><br/>Ho hum, Gerlinde repeated to herself - a line from the books of one of the few American authors she had read devotedly: Kurt Vonnegut.  Ho hum.  So it goes.  Life was a series of accidents.<br/><br/>All the same, Gerlinde looked down to see her penis still buried happily in Lisle's vagina, like a Roman column inside a tiny, blushing bloom.<br/><br/>"Very overwhelmed."  She looked away; looked up.  There, on her head, she noticed her SS cap still perched, its black bill glossy as the claw of a raven.  Just seeing it put a rippling pulse charging from her leaking balls, rustling the washer of her prostate and thundering up her cock.  She pulled the cap off and tossed it aside.  She no more wanted to wear it than she wanted to look back into Lisle's eyes.<br/><br/>Pretending for a moment that the girl was not fused against her, Gerlinde let her expression settle to a wan, white sobriety and held her eyes open in hope that they would soon dry on their own.<br/><br/><br/><br/>