I relish in my ripeness, fertility dripping from in between my thighs, I’m this unchaste ****** Mary, I am. I’ve been touched by far too many and it’s obvious, obviously. He can smell it on me because it lingers forever, they say that dogs can sense the *** on you.

how unholy is this fornication, the irony of it all is so invigorating.
the hunger alone is enough to fill me, yet the act is carried out effectively:

he makes me *** like he’s reading verses:
the movements committed to memory.