A hot afternoon in late March and a white room at the top of a small house by the water in Arkham. Shimmering white curtains fill the room with the light of a cloud. White walls, white floor, tousled white bed. On it, the dark comma of Cecilia Markham writhes.
She can feel the spring in every part of herself, a long and powerful unfolding, and everything around her and everything she sees, every memory, every thought, is driving her, driving her in but one direction in this lonely bed. She is conflicted, furious, frustrated, awash with longing. Even after the last 48 hours, the long weary hours of the op, the crawling through the marsh, the terror on the Innsmouth road, even after all of that, all her body wants, all she can think of is them.
Renner. All angles and length and height and grey eyes. Gentle hand, warm on her hip. Quill. All earthy strength and quick laughter. Her husband. She is wet. She presses her thighs together, feels herself bloom, a hot squish, the cooling on the backs of her thighs. God.
For an exhausted trembling moment Cecilia lies spread-eagled, covers discarded, floating and aching in this cloud-room, borne aloft on the hot wind which stirs the drapes. God dammit.
She rolls over, blunders through her nightstand. A selection of things. With each discovery she is more swollen, more slick. Bright things, small things, all discarded, until. Until this one. The right one. A long sweep of hard ceramic, swirls of dark red, a fluted ridged head. Her mind brightly paints this jutting tusk springing urgent from Renner’s unzipped pants and without thought she sucks while her left hand parts her own shimmering curtains and her fingers go to work, fucking herself as hard as she can. She groans round the wet cock. A bubble of spit bursts on her lip. Both men. Both ends. Oh God.