The motion, the endless motion. It was so hard to get used to that motion.

Marco, hot and sweaty with the aftermath of four hours of unabashed farting, had abandoned any notion of holding back his vomit. Hell, it might be a pleasant change from the huge, winking sphincter that occasionally groaned its fetid belch directly into his handsome, angular face. This was not a face that should be farted on, not by any means.

Even if his vomit wouldn’t smell much sweeter than his captor’s lactose intolerance, it might relieve the nausea that clung to his muscles and joints like goo. He was sick to his extremities with sucking down foul air and this relentless, unstoppable rocking motion Dorris subjected him to. If he didn’t know any better, he might believe she was doing this on purpose, swaying her hips extra-hard explicitly for his benefit.

All of this would be lovely on a different scale. He would absolutely allow the boring regional accounts architect to sit on his face with that miraculously cute ass of hers. He could while away a happy hour, following her through the corridors of the downtown commercial district, watching her cheeks bounce with every step she climbed.

But not like this, not like this…