On her way to the kitchen, Constance is spotted and hailed by Marise, the door of whose room is, as always, an open invitation. Marise is stretched out nude, characteristically self-shackled to her bed; Constance pauses in the doorway to exchange a few pleasantries--they like each other. And Constance has availed herself of that quenchless mouth, has fed Marise the liquid diet by which she swears. She has said the magic words: "Marise," the girls say, "Whose will be the face behind the next tongue between my legs?;" and Marise always answers, "Mine, baby, mine." Marise's tongue is a hard stare--she laps like others look. Bucking, gasping, her lovers leap to swift conclusions.
And sometimes, on warm nights, Marise delivers, lowering herself in a safety harness from the roof to where girls sit spread-legged on their window sills. Sharp cries ring out, although they never fall.
"You should make that girl of yours give you more tonight," Marise opines, turning serious.
"It's enough," Constance answers, not all that surprised that Marise should have intuited her evening's plans, and not at all convinced by her own response.
Indeed, Marise says, "You lie. She should give you more. She's not normal. She never comes to me, never has. Send Babe to me."
"You make her then."
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