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Unformatted text preview: its long wet hair so sleek, like a nun's veil, the head rising and rising. "Mother, see me. Help me! Lest I be small and useless!" The face loomed above hers, the great blue eyes peering down into her own, and the wet hand suddenly closing on her breast, making the milk squirt from the nipple. "Are you my baby girl?" she cried. "Ah, the scent of Father. Are you my baby girl?" There was the burning smell, the smell of the night he was born, the smell of something heated and dangerous and chemical, but noth- ing glowed in the dark. She felt the arms encircling her, the wet hair on her stomach, the mouth on her breast and then that delicious suck- ling, that wondrous suckling, sending the pleasure all through her. The pain was gone. So beautifully and wholly gone. The darkness of the night seemed to enfold her, and lock her down to the fallen leaves, to the bed of moss, beneath the delicious weight of the woman who lay on top of her. "Emaleth!" Yes, Mother. The milk is good....
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10