<div class="floatleft">(http://i.imgur.com/BVoyIAF.jpg)</div><em>Miss</em>? Nobody called her Miss. The last time someone had called her Miss...<br/><br/>Cinder stops mid-stride, reflecting on the young initiate, vestments pulled aside as he sat and clutched at her swiftly bobbing head.<em>Miss</em>, he called her, all the way through his climax.<br/><br/>There was something about holy men that made their seed taste funny. Not bad, just funny. Was it all the residual holiness? Must be. Sorta the fornicatory equivalent of holy water.<br/><br/>As she snatches her shirt from the candelabra her mind skips to the next random thought: she's dreadfully thirsty. One, though not the only, drawback of being perpetually horny is the constant battle against dehydration. She comes. A lot. Sometimes, more than a man. And then there are her tits. For no reason that she can tell sometimes she lactates. Maeryll loves it, kinky bitch. But again, what goes out, must come in. She draws moisture from sex...absorbing most fluids directly through the skin, or whatever orifice(s) is being violated at the moment. But that usually isn't enough.<br/><br/>The result?<br/><br/>After a night of fucking all she can thinking about is the need for fluids; Maslow's hierarchy of needs and all that.<br/><br/>The shirt is barely covering her. Her breasts spill out over the stained cotton, and the shirt-tail parts at her ample hips, leaving nothing to the imagination below her waist. She snatches open the door, glaring at the source of the knocking with a mixture of both irritation and desperation. Following her out of the room is the mistakable odor of sex.<br/><br/>"What?" she asks, followed immediately by, "You better have something to drink!"