She would wet her fingers to draw them along. The tip of her tongue lodged where quick and nail meet. He senses her scraping. Her finger slides past the teeth. Whorls of print crease the texture of bumps. Salt rides slender until at ridge of the first articulation, tongue in retreat, finger in retreat, her teeth come down on the nail. He catches in her pause. There is squeeze and release of assurance. Down onto the nail presses the underside of tongue. Up against the lower incisors presses the finger. More fingers follow until like a mouthful of feathers after pillow burst all but thumb is sopping offer to another mouth.


~ third locus of twenty ~
in strand oscul
second or fourth