Olivia is now exploring your inner thighs. Her kisses sometimes depress your pillowy skin, sometimes trace the curves where the suspender straps compress that skin into smooth valleys. There is one valley she discovers all of a sudden. Her pursed lips place a soft, melting kiss on your own. Without parting, her lips massage circles into you, trail kisses up and down your blossoming labia. You let out a sigh and Amelie leans down to kiss your mouth, deeply.

“I think this will be fun,” Olivia says, pacing over and kissing you on the lips like she has five or six times in as many minutes. She’s just this side of nervous. If you didn’t know better you’d say she was prowling. “Ever since that time with Gemma, when she was inside you and we were together… God, I haven’t been able to get that out of my mind!”

It’s the second time you’ve had to pee, and the fact that your stomach still sloshes as you waddle to the bathroom means it’s probably not the last. The heat inside you pulls at your consciousness, making you crave sleep or something close to it. Your food coma amuses you in an abstract way. Perhaps whatever put you here designed it in so you would be too lazy to do anything too war-crimey.

Amelie is breathing soft and regular, somehow undisturbed by the increasingly violent complaints of Gemma’s remains that knot your insides. The work of two careful minutes repositions her so she can sleep on the bed. You tuck her in and slip away. Me-time. Spanish plumbing is hazy at the best of times. You’re going to have to go easy, but even as you’re walking, powerful internal spasms are accompanied by a discordant orchestra of phuts, purts, and tremulous piping prrrrts.

Breakfast is long, luxurious, and includes courses not available at the buffet. Amelie returns after a long absence with a room service trolley loaded with covered plates and glasses. She also comes wearing a floaty blue body-length sarong and a slightly shy, hungry smile. “It’s about time,” you begin. “I’m hung—” With a twitch of her shoulderblades, she reveals she is wearing nothing else. You watch the slinky fabric flow over her shoulder, the swell of her breasts, her wide hips, to pool around her feet.

Like a wrestler you throw Gemma onto the bed and keep her down with your weight as you spin above her. Your thighs push her head into the duvet, drowning any scream, and your hands isolate her knees and calves, pointing her toes in one convenient, helpless direction. Feet are a necessary evil. You get around them by deepthroating her calves all in one. The resulting kicking and thrashing underneath your belly excites you, makes you keener to put it inside your belly where it belongs.