Constance goes to her. Straddling Babe's lap, shivering slightly at the contact of the chain mail with her skin, she takes Babe's fragrant head to her breast and strokes her hair, half-curiously--Babe is so different tonight. Tightening her arms around Constance's broad back, Babe sighs with unmistakable contentment. Then Constance feels Babe begin to kiss her breasts and nuzzle them, her mouth finding one nipple, then the other, her tongue and lips insistent, needy; and Constance, dizzy with the unfamiliar pleasure, is nonetheless alarmed at this neediness in Babe she never knew existed and never (she realizes now) really wanted to exist, certain fantasies notwithstanding: for now at their unlooked-for consummation she feels above all else a deep contempt for Babe, a limitless disdain for her final ordinariness. But then she realizes that a needy Babe really does excite her.
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