[ at every angle she is cupped and squeezed and held and filled. she thinks briefly of her luggage, lost in time, judiciously packed with a few choice items she would love to have inside her right now.

but more than that... the hat. what laughter there would be if she could only give this boy that hat. to watch him dream up Irene Adler in real time, in true flesh and bone. she sucks a breath and her wrists strain as she sinks lower to push down as he pushes up. fat melds, creates the deep shadow of cleavage, and she wriggles atop him again, onto his fingers and into his groin. ]

Suck on it, Herlock... and harder than you might be thinking. As though you are trying to bring forth my milk.

[ mumbly and perhaps a little strange, strange to say it that way. it is so hard to think... ]