Her wet lips pressed closed over throbbing gums, her face a red and white mask of pain, and of something else. His tongs worked beneath her thighs with the methodical rhythm of a smith, and just like a smith it was resulting in the production of something raw and molten, something that made her white-blonde hair drag with a ghostly whisper on the floorboards as she shook her head, trying to push down the sensation.<br/><br/>Then abruptly her head lifted, screwing up, and she spat - spraying him with a hot mouthful of her own blood that had collected in her own mouth while he'd lips and suckled and introduced her to a torture that involved something totally other than pain.