Above her, the foursome was a tangle of arms and legs; apart from Chloe being pounded into the sofa by her master, the other two women did everything they could to placate the Historian’s insatiable appetite, attending to every last bit of flesh they could reach. The Painter even began to whoop as he ducked its flailing tendrils, throwing excited looks at his friend. Every little thing on that girl’s face spelled excitement, from the fluttering of her eyelashes to the shy little smiles on her lips between kisses. “Oh, fuck yeah!” the Historian’s voice boomed, spilling joy through his dour mask. It was the little whore’s fault that he would have to trouble himself with eliminating the leeches. It felt wonderful to have him inside her, even if it was just his tongue. She was even more beautiful than he had conceived—a Waterhouse vision come to life. THE ARCHBISHOP
On the surface he was the epitome of patience.
