The specific, architectural fact of it — generous, full, the kind of weight and proportion that belonged to a woman who had lived in a body for a significant number of years and had produced it with the time and the living — presented upward, the skirt bunched at the waist, the thick flesh pale in the hotel light.
A tail.
A butt plug, the base of it shaped into the decorative arc of a fox tail, seated in the stretched ring of the woman's ass with the comfortable certainty of something that had been placed and left there — and the tail itself, soft and dark, resting along the small of her back.
Her legs were bound at the ankle and wrist.
Her face was in a pillow.
The panty stuffed in her mouth — visible at the corners of her lips, the elastic showing — was doing its job adequately but not completely, the muffled sounds finding their way out around the edges.
Her thighs were wet.
