The attempt to strike him was neither as hard nor as on-target as Atnorsa would have hoped, but there was the satisfying thud of flesh and bone against the back of her hand, which in turn jolted with the pain of contact, slicing through the strange veil that had been clouding her mind. "Nor farmer you... nor a field to be plowed... I," she growled softly, Eyes clenching shut and popping fiercely open again, promising cold death over her pale shoulder as she twisted, pressing forward against the table - and using it and the weight of his hand on her back, she lifted both her feet from the floor. One hooking behind his ankle, the other seeking his knee, she sought to rid herself of the hard and jerking probe of his fleshy shaft, shoving against her unwillingly ready sex, by trying to trip him backward.