Suction Quotes

There are three kinds of males in this world: boys, guys, and men. Boys – like Billy – never grow up, never get serious. They only care about themselves, their music, their cars. Guys – like you – are all about numbers and variety. Like an assembly line, it’s just one one-night stand after another. Then there are men – like Matthew. They’re not perfect, but they appreciate women for more than their flexibility and mouth suction.

The letter said that they were two feet high, and green, and shaped like plumber's friends. Their suction cups were on the ground, and their shafts, which were extremely flexible, usually pointed to the sky. At the top of each shaft was a little hand with a green eye in its palm. The creatures were friendly, and they could see in four dimensions. They pitied Earthlings for being able to see only three. They had many wonderful things to teach Earthlings, especially about time. Billy promised to tell what some of those wonderful things were in his next letter. Billy was working on his second letter when the first letter was published. The second letter started out like this: The most important thing I learned on Tralfamadore was that when a person dies he only appears to die. He is still very much alive in the past, so it is very silly for people to cry at his funeral. All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, always will exist. The Tralfamadorians can look at all the different moments just that way we can look at a stretch of the Rocky Mountains, for instance. They can see how permanent all the moments are, and they can look at any moment that interests them. It is just an illusion we have here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone it is gone forever. When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in a bad condition in that particular moment, but that the same person is just fine in plenty of other moments. Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is "so it goes.

I challenge you to find a more innocuous sentence containing the words sperm, suction, swallow, and any homophone of seaman. And then call me up on the homophone and read it to me.

Between the lapels of his subdued charcoal suit, he'd worn a silky red tie. A gold Rolex had circled his wrist, and an overblown blonde had been bonded on his side like a suction cup. The man clearly liked to accessorize.

No scarf tonight?" the captain asked, pointing at Solara's neck. "I guess you finally beat that cold virus." "I don't believe she had a cold," Renny said thoughtfully. "I'll bet it was the Hoover flu. You know, named after the old vacuum cleaners on Earth?" "Oh, I've heard of that disease," Cassia chimed in. "Doesn't it cause a rash that looks like suction marks? Highly contagious when mixed with cute guys and Crystalline?

Manhattan can act as a giant suction cup, sucking you into its folds. The city breeds no wimps and makes no apologies.

This inability to ground his fantasies in reality has generally been regarded as one of Leonardo’s major failings. Yet in order to be a true visionary, one has to be willing to overreach and to fail some of the time. Innovation requires a reality distortion field. The things he envisioned for the future often came to pass, even if it took a few centuries. Scuba gear, flying machines, and helicopters now exist. Suction pumps now drain swamps. Along the route of the canal that Leonardo drew there is now a major highway.

See, Drew, there are three kinds of males in this world: boys, guys, and men. Boys—like Billy—never grow up, never get serious. They only care about themselves, their music, their cars. Guys—like you—are all about numbers and variety. Like an assembly line, it’s just one one-night stand after another. Then there are men—like Matthew. They’re not perfect, but they appreciate women for more than their flexibility and mouth suction.

I need a hundred dollars and some suction

During discussions in his office, Bradlee frequently picked up an undersize sponge-rubber basketball from the table and tossed it toward a hoop attached by suction cups to the picture window. The gesture was indicative both of the editor's short attention span and of a studied informality. There was an alluring combination of aristocrat and commoner about Bradlee: Boston Brahmin, Harvard, the World War II Navy, press attaché at the U.S. Embassy in Paris, police-beat reporter, news-magazine political reporter and Washington bureau chief of Newsweek. -- Carl Bernstein, Bob Woodward

The constant steaming in of thoughts of others must suppress and confine our own and indeed in the long run paralyze the power of thought… The inclination of most scholars is a kind of fuga vacui ( latin for vacuum suction )from the poverty of their own mind , which forcibly draws in the thoughts of others… It is dangerous to read about a subject before we have thought about it ourselves… When we read, another person thinks for us; merely repeat his mental process. So it comes about that if anybody spends almost the whole day in reading, he gradually loses the capacity for thinking. Experience of the world may be looked upon as a kind of text, to which reflection and knowledge form the commentary. Where there is a great deal of reflection and intellectual knowledge and very little experience , the result is like those books which have on each page two lines of text to forty lines of commentary

without warning, the thermometer disappeared from my fingers. Some sudden suction had drawn it inside the cow. I ran my fingers round just inside the rectum—nothing; I pushed my hand inside without success; with a feeling of rising panic I rolled up my sleeve and groped about in vain.

One thing that fucked me up badly was losing the callouses that built up on my fingers from operating his suction machine… After Henry died, those callouses began to fade away. I hated that. I hated it so much. Please let me have my little hard bumps on my fingers that I can rub and think of him. They reminded me of helping him breathe, which it was my privilege to do. I could touch them and know they were there because of him. They told me that I loved him and he needed me and that he was real.

There is no guarantee that we won't be suctioned off the surface of the earth by a demonically possessed vacuum cleaner.

Oh… ah… fuuuuck!" I scream as he puts the Dyson vacuum suction on my quim.

Never had he felt a pussy this amazing—so hot, wet, suctioning, and oh-so-tight around him.

I whispered, "Do you have a rubber?" He laughed, hushed, a laughing whisper, as though his parents were in the next room, and reached one arm past my head to a nightstand there. "A rubber chicken." He shook the dancing chicken in the air. "Will that do?" I laughed back, ran a finger along the bumps of the fake chicken skin. "Ribbed and beaked for her pleasure, even. Want me to leave you two alone?" He threw the chicken on the floor and bit my neck and I giggled and he said, "Never," and he was everywhere then. The couch was a sinking place and I disappeared into the orgy of costumes, the smell of nervous strangers, makeup and smoke, my naked body buried in the perfume of human need. I took the rubber chicken home. Plucky was my mascot, the souvenir of our date. Later, much later, there was the conception of our child. And now the miscarriage, unexpected, though I should've expected it because, why not? -- family slid through my fingers the same as the old silicone banana-peel trick. After the D&C, after the suctioning away of our tiny fetus, I drew the black heart on Plucky's rubber breast in the place where a chicken might have a heart, over the ridges of implied feathers. Indelible ink. Now she'd been nabbed by a kid too young to know what love means, what a chicken might mean. Too young to know that a rubber chicken can carry all of love in one indelible ink heart.

In the right situation, highly formalized, high-suction ass-kissing not only comes all too naturally to me, it makes me breathless with a feeling of penitential power.

bet Debra Anastasia has a suction button or something on her pussy. Why else would that poor man stay with her?

Something warm and wet on my big toe. Jesus… he’s got my toein his mouth. His tongue circled it, once, twice, and then I felt the suction. Heard the slurping. Heard him moan. This freak is sucking my toe.

A favorite Oriental method is to snuff a little water up the nostrils allowing it to run down the passage into the throat, from thence it may be ejected through the mouth. Some Hindu yogis immerse the face in a bowl of water, and by a sort of suction draw in quite a quantity of water, but this latter method requires considerable practice, and the first mentioned method is equally efficacious, and much more easily performed.

He pulls just an inch away, releasing with a sweet suction my bottom lip. “Your mouth is hot and tastes like honey.” I show him the tea that I’ve been holding out of the way. “I see,” he twinkles at me and takes the travel mug, helping himself to a long sip. He leans back in, and I guess what he’s doing just in time. His feeding me the hot sip of honeyed tea should be weird, but as usual, he’s so committed to the moment that I just enjoy the sweetness, the intimacy.

Tal rested his forehead against Athlen's. His heart beat wildly. Magic and desire scorched through his veins, his body set aflame. "I won't leave without you. I promise." "Thank you." Tal didn't know what awaited them beyond this moment, but this was the chance he thought he'd missed. He wouldn't miss it again. Closing the scant distance between them, Tal tilted his head. His pulse thudded hard under his skin as he brushed his chapped lips over Athlen's, trembling and unsure, terrified in equal parts that he might be pushed away or pulled closer. It was the briefest of kisses, and Athlen's mouth was slippery and cool before Tal inched away, breaking the gentle suction. He shivered as Athlen cradled his face in his hands and drew him back to kiss again. Tal surged forward, bold and eager, hungry for every sensation, his fist clenched in the fabric of Athlen's shirt. Athlen returned each fervent press with an intensity of his own, lips parted, mouth hot and willing, and as clumsy as Tal felt.

I must write about the things of the world with no glazing.” She fought doggedly against the great suction into her own subjectivity: “I shall perish if I can write about no one but myself.” Something like this went through nearly every entry in her journal over long periods. In

What we have here,” Doc said at the start of the fourth week of the peace, “is your basic vacuum. Follow me? A vacuum. Like in emptiness, suction. Can’t have order in a vacuum. For order you got to have substance, matériel. So here we are—nothing to order, no substance. Aimless, that’s

To gain control over a large number of people you do not have to place them in containers with suction caps attached to their bodies like in the film “The Matrix”. It is enough to create an all-encompassing information network because then people will automatically take their places in its cells.

In the great snowfall before the bomb" In the great snowfall before the bomb colored yule tree lights windows, the only glow for contemplation along this road I worked the print shop right down among em the folk from whom all poetry flows and dreadfully much else. I was Blondie I carried my bundles of hog feeder price lists down by Larry the Lug, I'd never get anywhere because I'd never had suction, pull, you know, favor, drag, well-oiled protection. I heard their rehashed radio barbs— more barbarous among hirelings as higher-ups grow more corrupt. But what vitality! The women hold jobs— clean house, cook, raise children, bowl and go to church. What would they say if they knew I sit for two months on six lines of poetry?

There is at the outset a very obvious and almost facile connection between the war in Vietnam and the struggle I, and others, have been waging in America. A few years ago there was a shining moment in that struggle. It seemed as if there was a real promise of hope for the poor -- both black and white -- through the poverty program. There were experiments, hopes, new beginnings. Then came the buildup in Vietnam and I watched the program broken and eviscerated as if it were some idle political plaything of a society gone mad on war, and I knew that America would never invest the necessary funds or energies in rehabilitation of its poor so long as adventures like Vietnam continued to draw men and skills and money like some demonic destructive suction tube.

I IS MAKING MYSELF A MARVELUS PAIR OF SUCTION BOOTS AND WHEN I PUT THEM ON I IS ABEL TO WALK STRATE UP THE KITSHUN WALL AND ACROSS THE CEILING. WELL, I IS WALKING UPSIDE DOWN ON THE CEILING WEN MY BIG SISTER COMES IN AND SHE IS STARTING TO YELL AT ME AS SHE ALWAYS DOES, YELLING WOT ON EARTH IS YOU DOING UP THERE WALKING ON THE CEILING AND I LOOKS DOWN AT HER AND I SMILES AND I SAYS I TOLD YOU YOU WAS DRIVING ME UP THE WALL AND NOW YOU HAS DONE IT.

Finally when he climbed below deck after dark, wondering where his dinner was, perhaps with a storm come up and rough seas and blinding rains, I'd sulk and lure him into the warm and steamy darkness and from the hairs of his warm body I'd breed a myriad smiling, sparkle-eyed one-year-olds, my broods, my flocks. In the churning seas, below the waves, together inside our hammock woven in coarse sailcloth by Unguentine's deft hands, a spherical webbed sack which hung and swivelled between the two walls of our bedroom, we would spin round and round with lapping tongues and the soft suction of lips, whirling, our amorous centrifuge, all night long, zipped inside against the elements. Now, years and years later, those nights, the thought and touch of them is enough to make me throw myself down on the ground and roll in the dust like a hen nibbled by mites, generating clouds, stars and all the rest.

At the far end of the taxiway, B-17s began to roll out of their hardstands and onto the perimeter track. Karl nudged the throttles up to 1500 RPM to exercise the turbos. One by one, he eased back the prop control levers and watched for an RPM drop to make sure the propeller governors were working. Everything checked good; Hellstorm gave him no release from the dilemma splitting his heart in two. Good hydraulic pressure, good suction, good voltages. Good Lord.

Crouching over her, St. Vincent teased and fondled until he felt her hips rising tentatively against his hand. "I want to be inside you," he whispered, kissing the side of her neck. "I want to go deep into your body... I'll be so gentle, love... let me turn you over, and... God, you're so lovely..." He pressed her on her back, and settled between her widespread thighs, his whisper becoming frayed and unsteady. "Touch me, sweetheart... put your hand there..." He sucked in a quick breath as her fingers curved gently around the hard length of his sex. Evie stroked him hesitantly, understanding from the quickening of his breath that the caress gave him pleasure. His eyes closed, the thick lashes trembling slightly against his cheeks, his lips parting from the force of his sharp respirations. Awkwardly, she gripped the heavy shaft and guided it between her thighs. The head of it slipped against the wetness of her sex, and St. Vincent groaned as if in pain. Trying again, Evie positioned him uncertainly. Once in place, he nudged strongly into the vulnerable cove. It burned far more than when he had put his fingers in her, and Evie tensed against the pain. Cradling her body in his arms, St. Vincent moved in a powerful thrust, and another, and then he was all the way inside. She writhed with the impulse to escape the hurtful invasion, but it seemed that each movement only drew him deeper. Filled and stretched and opened, Evie forced herself to lie still in his arms. She held on to his shoulders, her fingertips digging into the hard quilting of muscle and sinew, and she let him soothe her with his mouth and hands. His brilliant eyes were heavy-lidded as he bent to kiss her. Welcoming the warm sleekness of his tongue, she drew it into her mouth with eager, awkward suction. He made a low sound of surprise, shuddering, and his shaft jerked violently inside her in a series of rhythmic spasms.

The trees begin to thin, and we pass old, graffiti-covered benches and half-shell underpasses, speckled with mold; a roof, intact, sitting on a field of grass, as though the rest of the house has been simply suctioned underground; stretches of road that, leading nowhere, are now part of a nonsense-grammar. This is the language of the world before—a world of chaos and confusion and happiness and despair—before the blitz turned streets to grids, cities to prisons, and hearts to dust.

Salo had a skin with the texture and color of the skin of an Earthling tangerine. Salo had three light deer-like legs. His feet were of an extraordinarily interesting design, each being an inflatable sphere. By inflating these spheres to the size of German batballs, Salo could walk on water. By reducing them to the size of golf balls, Salo could bound over hard surfaces at high speeds. When he deflated the spheres entirely, his feet became suction cups. Salo could walk up walls. Salo had no arms. Salo had three eyes, and his eyes could perceive not only the so-called visible spectrum, but infrared and ultraviolet and X-rays as well. Salo was punctual—that is, he lived one moment at a time—and he liked to tell Rumfoord that he would rather see the wonderful colors at the far ends of the spectrum than either the past or the future. This was something of a weasel, since Salo had seen, living a moment at a time, far more of the past and far more of the Universe than Rumfoord had. He remembered more of what he had seen, too. Salo’s head was round and hung on gimbals.

Also, consider—to bleed out through a bite, there must be the bite first and then a sucking action. Surely, it would also leave a bruise, circular, where the mouth applied suction. A creature would bite and lick or suck, but even so, to drain such a quantity of blood from the large veins . . . and if the arteries were bitten, why, no animal could consume so much blood quickly or so cleanly. An artery would bleed like a fire hose. In either situation, consuming blood and leaving either no suction marks or a bloodless scene would be impossible.

This inability to ground his fantasies in reality has generally been regarded as one of Leonardo’s major failings. Yet in order to be a true visionary, one has to be willing to overreach and to fail some of the time. Innovation requires a reality distortion field. The things he envisioned for the future often came to pass, even if it took a few centuries. Scuba gear, flying machines, and helicopters now exist. Suction pumps now drain swamps. Along the route of the canal that Leonardo drew there is now a major highway. Sometimes fantasies are paths to reality.

The arousal I'd felt at the gym returned, this time dressed in Kevlar, and it was kicking my ass. A slow-rolling, hot-as-sin lust swept through my body, setting every cell on fire. Fielding's mouth was sweet and minty and warm, and the suction was just right. He was a quick study, mirroring my actions, alternating between sucking gently at my mouth and suggestively lathing with his tongue. But there was an innocence in him, a surprised and eager passion that trembled through his body, unable to be contained. I could feel how much it was affecting him, and it made me crazy.

Hello! You are a Mission: Impossible agent. You dangle from ceilings into locked vaults, cling via suction cup to skyscrapers, and unmask your true identity to the double-crossers you’ve just triple-crossed. Also, you do not seem to get what “impossible” means. “Impossible” does not mean “as routine as a quarterly earnings report.” Nor does it mean “very rare” or “rather difficult” or “whew, it’s a good thing that knife blade halted a millimeter from Tom Cruise’s eye.” It means “not possible.” And yet it keeps happening. Your film’s title is as dishonest as its theme song is catchy.

She tightened her grip on his wrist and slowly pulled it towards her. His index finger slid in farther and she gasped at how it felt. She paused, pulled again. Deeper. Deeper. Her pussy throbbed and she took him as far in to her body as she could. His hand was flat against her pulsing lips, his palm pressing on her clit. “Oh!” she said. “Oh, Chris… oh, God.” “It feels good, baby?” “Yes… it feels amazing.” She withdrew his finger slowly, feeling the suction of her body, then pulled him in again, using both her hands this time. He groaned as her pussy muscles tightened on him, and he felt the answering burst of wetness between her lips. Jenny pulled his finger in and out of her, slowly at first, then faster, and Chris felt her body start to tremble. I’m going to come myself if this goes on much longer. She pulled him out of her heat completely, unfolded his middle finger to join his index one. The she pulled both of them in to her, giving a small cry at the renewed sensation. “Touch my clit,” she begged. “Use your thumb… Chris, please.” He did as she asked, swirling around her hard nub every time she pulled his fingers in to her body. She plunged his fingers faster, every pull in going deeper and harder. His thumb pushed down consistently, not breaking the contact, and she closed her eyes as the wave of pleasure rose and rose, became larger and stronger than she’d expected. She released his hand now. “I trust you,” she breathed. “I want you to do it. I want you to make me come…” He groaned and kissed her, hard, his fingers moving in and out of her at a steady pace. Her hands gripped the headboard above her, her toes curled, she threw her head back. “So close, sweetheart,” he said, his voice almost a growl against her mouth. “You’re going to love it. Let go. Let me see you.

So that to give a commentary on the text, such as we are attempting here, is to reinforce the illusion that a present meaning exists–that a text can be presented. When I try to present a commentary (as I am doing here), I necessarily resist the suction of the play of meanings which attempts to suck any such attempt–which it produces–back into a void. If I try to explain the text, I forget that the production of my explanation is already related to its dissolution, its disappearance into a textual void, a void between any two readings, a void which is always already producing another reading, and its dissolution.

Order number one, which came first and last, was: Hold on to the raft! Whatever happened, we must hang on tight on board and let the nine great logs take the pressure from the reef. We ourselves had more than enough to do to withstand the weight of the water. If we jumped overboard, we should become helpless victims of the suction which would fling us in and out over the sharp corals. The rubber raft would capsize in the steep seas or, heavily loaded with us in it, it would be torn to ribbons against the reef. But the wooden logs would sooner or later be cast ashore, and we with them, if we only managed to hold fast.

But all this is still small potatoes compared to 1009’s fascinating and potentially malevolent toilet. A harmonious concordance of elegant form and vigorous function, flanked by rolls of tissue so soft as to be without the usual perforates for tearing, my toilet has above it this sign: THIS TOILET IS CONNECTED TO A VACUUM SEWAGE SYSTEM. PLEASE DO NOT THROW INTO THE TOILET ANYTHING THAN ORDINARY TOILET WASTE AND TOILET PAPER 70 Yes that’s right a vacuum toilet. And, as with the exhaust fan above, not a lightweight or unambitious vacuum. The toilet’s flush produces a brief but traumatizing sound, a kind of held high-B gargle, as of some gastric disturbance on a cosmic scale. Along with this sound comes a concussive suction so awesomely powerful that it’s both scary and strangely comforting—your waste seems less removed than hurled from you, and hurled with a velocity that lets you feel as though the waste is going to end up someplace so far away from you that it will have become an abstraction… a kind of existential-level sewage treatment.

His arms folded across his chest. He stared at me without speaking, moving toward me until my back hit the driver’s side door. Leaning forward, he braced a hand on the glass beside my head. “What the fuck were you thinking? If I hadn’t been there—” He broke off, his eyes slamming shut. “I know, I know. I don’t know what would have happened.” I raised my shaking hands to his heaving chest. “Thank you for being there.” His eyes flashed open and zeroed in on me. “I’ve never been more pissed off at you.” “I wish you weren’t.” My fingers balled his T-shirt in a tight grip. “Please, Weston, don’t be mad at me.” He bent down, his nose almost brushing mine. “I’m so fucking angry, Elise. You have no idea what I want to do with you right now.” I inhaled. His hot breath hit my lips. A wild, frantic current flowed in the narrow space between us. Adrenaline coursed through my bloodstream. My mind scrambled. Then he was on me, or I was on him. There was no telling who moved first. We collided, our lips suctioning to one another, his tongue delving into my mouth. Fingers threaded through my hair, tugging my head back. He kissed me hard, violent, and I clawed at him.

They were all there. On the ceiling. Pulling him up. He screamed, spittle and vomit running into his beard. Hands closed around him, digging into his skin. He resisted, trying to pry the fingers loose from his neck. He felt something give, a tension slackening. As he yanked with the power of terror and adrenaline, his hands flew outwards, a clump of mottled fingers coming away with him. He felt a sharp tug as his arms fell to his sides, his body screaming at him that something bad was happening. Another pull as the most intense pain he had ever felt exploded down his back and neck. He started to convulse as they pulled him up. Something spilled out of his mouth. Hands swarmed around his back and head. With one last tug, he heard a ripping noise. Blood fell to the floor, spraying out across the foyer. Something else tore open with a slurp, heavy suction holding tight as it came loose. He had the momentary feeling of cold air rushing inside him, then watched as his body spilled away from him, crashing to the floor below. As they bit down into his skull, he watched his spine twitching underneath his chin. A noise like nuts being broken open, something mashed into his brain, and then he was gone.

And I wrote a story for private circulation, "Miss Lewis & the Giant Turd," about a painful bowel movement that began in class, as she was drilling us on prepositions. Suddenly she emitted a low scraping sound like a box of rocks being dragged across concrete--like a glacier moving!--and she let out an AIIIIEEEEEEE and bent over double and hobbled to the girls' room, where she fell to the floor and cried pitifully for the janitor, who rushed in with a plunger and tried to extract the fecal mass from her, but it was too immense, and then the fire department arrived and laid her over the sink and attached a suction pump, two men on either side of her skinny butt, working a lever, and they managed to suction the poop out of her, and when they were done, she weighed forty-five pounds. And she couldn't teach anymore, she just sat on her front step waving to passing cars. This title passed from pupil to pupil, two grimy sheets of paper folded to pocket size.... The story found its way to Laura, Miss Lewis's pet, who handed it over to her, and she read it, thin-lipped, and tore it into tiny pieces and dropped them into the wastebacket. "This is so childish it doesn't bear talking about," she said. "It is beneath contempt.

Leibniz responded immediately to Papin’s letter, asking if his system for raising water was based on rarefaction, meaning condensing steam to make a vacuum. Papin replied that it was, but it also used steam pressure directly. “These [direct] effects are not bounded,” he told Leibniz, “as is the case with suction.”30 Papin meant that his engine had two modes of action: (1) the pressure of expanding steam; and (2), rarefaction or suction—harnessing the power of atmospheric pressure to fill a partial vacuum. In the engine’s direct-action phase, a small quantity of water was poured into a cylinder, a piston was inserted and pushed down until it contacted the water, a ported lid was screwed onto the cylinder, and a fire built under it. When the water turned to steam, it pushed up the piston, which a spring-loaded rod then pinned into place. Removing the fire and allowing the cylinder to cool caused the cooling steam inside to condense back into water, creating a vacuum where steam had been before. Removing the rod holding up the piston allowed the piston, in Papin’s words, to be “pressed down by the whole weight of the atmosphere,” forcing it down to fill the cylinder again.31 With the piston connected to a crank, both the upward push of the steam and the downward push of the atmosphere could be applied to do useful work such as pumping water or turning a boat paddlewheel.

Then he drops his head back down, pulls my panties all the way to my ankles, and finally makes contact. I fall back against the bed, gasping at the soft, hot, wet feel of Callum's mouth on the most sensitive spot of my body. This is way, way better than any dream. The slow circles he makes with his tongue send heat through every inch of me. Callum is the master of slow burn, setting me on fire from the inside out with just his tongue. It doesn't seem to matter where he chooses to taste me. Every single time his mouth makes contact, I'm engulfed in flames. I'm gasping, whimpering, moaning his name. He hums his approval. He speeds up, then slows down. Then repeats it again and again. Everything he does, it's all divine. With my body on fire, my brain in a pleasure-mush state, I can't form words; only sounds. Pressure builds behind the heat, like I'm boiling over. I twist both hands into the pillow, supporting my head. It's either that or rip the hair from his scalp, because I absolutely cannot handle this level of ecstasy. Callum increases the pressure and then throws in a wild card: suction. Holy hot damn. My whimpers turn into screams. The pressure between my legs builds and builds until every limb is shaking. Just then he eases up, and I finally catch my breath. But then he's back at it, humming against me. I could swear I hear him chuckling. Before I can be sure, he's amping up the pressure, speeding up until I'm thrashing. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to hold on. Seconds, maybe. But minutes? No way on God's green Earth. More pressure, more suction, then bam. Explosion. The simmering slow burn is nowhere to be found. This is a volcanic eruption of ecstasy. It's every muscle ablaze, tensing as climax claims me. It's me shouting, gasping, panting, tugging at the bedsheets, tugging at Callum. It's babbling, going cross-eyed, ending in a sweat-soaked pile in the middle of the bed and never, ever feeling more satisfied than in this moment.

I remember clearly one occasion, about 30 years ago, with my mouth full of drills and suction tubes, a dentist giving me his philosophy for a happy life. He felt that we need three things to be happy - someone or something to love, something to do, and something to look forward to. I would endorse his philosophy, perhaps adding that the something to do should be something we love doing. - Kerry Chater

Fifteen years ago, Israeli scientists published a study in which engineers observed patient care in ICUs for twenty-four-hour stretches. They found that the average patient required 178 individual actions per day, ranging from administering a drug to suctioning the lungs, and every one of them posed risks. Remarkably, the nurses and doctors were observed to make an error in just 1 percent of these actions—but that still amounted to an average of two errors a day with every patient. Intensive care succeeds only when we hold the odds of doing harm low enough for the odds of doing good to prevail. This is hard. There are dangers simply in lying unconscious in bed for a few days. Muscles atrophy. Bones lose mass. Pressure ulcers form. Veins begin to clot. You have to stretch and exercise patients’ flaccid limbs daily to avoid contractures; you have to give subcutaneous injections of blood thinners at least twice a day, turn patients in bed every few hours, bathe them and change their sheets without knocking out a tube or a line, brush their teeth twice a day to avoid pneumonia from bacterial buildup in their mouths. Add a ventilator, dialysis, and the care of open wounds, and the difficulties only accumulate.

She sits up and sighs. “Problem?” “You’re not doing it right.” Not doing it right? Jacqui thinks. Like it’s what, a cappuccino? It’s a pretty simple equation there, dumbass. It’s suction, basic physics. “What do you want me to do different?” she asks. Like be Fergie, Jennifer Lawrence, a Kardashian? “Use your tongue more.

My curiosity aroused, I flipped to another page. 蛸と海女: Tako to Ama, trans. ‘The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife.’ Head thrown back, eyes closed, a nude woman lay sprawled ashore. Her brows creased in anguish and ecstasy. As she was pleasured by a large octopus. No, octopi. I trailed a finger along the suctioned underside of the creature’s appendage to her breast where a smaller octopus latched onto. The painting might’ve been unmoving, but it held an animated quality. The woman writhing on the shore; the fluid movements of the sea creatures as the trio derived mutual pleasure from their strange encounter. Their visceral desire seeped through the page, and I was but a voyeur.

Despite the awfulness of what was happening, the backdrop was a scene of beauty: a clear sky, a bright moon, clearly visible stars, flat undisturbed water, and an immense liner blazing with pinholes of light. The music would have carried farther than usual because for most of the time there were no competing sounds from engines or waves. Passengers who left from both port and starboard told similar stories of being able to hear the band as they were quickly rowed away to avoid the inevitable drag of the suction. Emily Rugg claimed she could hear the band from a mile away.

He suctioned, siphoned, and guzzled my gooey delicacy with his tongue before anchoring his plethora into my sodden center again.

The suction of transpirational pull places water under tension in the xylem of an actively transpiring plant. Thus, when stems are cut, air is drawn into the exposed vessels and blocks the flow of water. In the garden, flower stems should always be cut longer than desired, and recut to the correct length while holding the stems under water. If the stems are then quickly transferred to a vase, the transpiration stream continues uninterrupted, without the blossoms wilting. Scissor-type pruning shears or a sharp knife should be used to make clean cuts so the ends of the xylem vessels remain open.

Each century had its own strain of blindness to the humanity of every person. Abortion was our era’s great injustice…. Today, the most dehumanized among us is the child in the womb. This child is not even considered a human worthy of basic legal protection. Indeed, the unwanted unborn enjoy fewer protections than unwanted animals. Instead, preborn children are routinely dismembered, suctioned to death, deprived of nutrients, or given lethal injections, all with the consent of the law and in the name of ‘rights’.

Reading about Istanbul, or looking at pictures, does not prepare you for the experience of walking along the Bosphorus and in winding cobbled streets, smelling the kebab, being invited in by kind strangers to join them for apple tea. Similarly, reading about the rainforest, watching documentaries that are well researched and beautifully shot, does not prepare you for the experience of having toucans fly overhead in the understory, the deep beat of their wings a slow rhythm in the jangled cacophony. The rainforest documentary does not prepare you for the red eye shine of spiders at night, the suction of deep mud on your boots, the deep dark green of it all. Strangely, it is also true that actually being in the rainforest does not fully prepare you for being in the rainforest, by which I mean, the experience is never the same twice. That is part of why it is so alluring to some of us

Constable Visit enjoyed his job. He didn’t have many friends in the city. Truth to tell, he didn’t have many friends in the Watch, either. But at least there were people to talk to, and he was making headway with the religious instruction of the pigeons. But now there was this . . . It was addressed to Captain Carrot. That meant it probably ought to be delivered to Captain Colon now, and personally, because Captain Colon thought that people were spying on his messages sent via the suction tube.

He removed the message capsule. The thin paper inside was tightly folded and on it someone had written CPT. CARROT, PERSONAL. He hesitated, then put the message from Reg Shoe into the pneumatic tube and heard the whoosh of the suction as it headed off to the main office. The other one, he decided, required a more careful delivery. Carrot was working in Vimes’s office but, Visit noticed, not at the Commander’s desk. Instead, he’d set up a folding table in the corner. The tottering piles of paperwork on the desk were slightly less alpine than yesterday. There were even occasional patches of desktop. “Personal message for you, Captain.” “Thank you.

The hint of danger stretches out like tentacles and suctions to my skin like a dark caress.

I raise my hand to her mouth, sticking two fingers in. She sucks them greedily like the good girl she is. A good little slut. I pull them out with a pop, making her release the suction she had on me.

Every machine periodically required replacement bags. The vacuum industry’s business model was akin to Gillette’s: Make the razor to sell the blades. Dyson decided that he could make a better machine, whose improved suction would clean better and would eliminate the continually recurring expense of bag replacement.

The sky is like old blue denim just before dawn, with one round hole worn through, exposing the cold bony knee of the moon. I have been hearing the trilling of tree frogs. That a frog - even one with the chirp of a bird - would live in a tree (not even in but on), clinging with little suction cups to keep from falling, is the height of craziness, but forty feet in the air, light as leaves, their tiny hearts are slow and steady under kite paper skin, and their black eyes shine with moonlight. Let us praise all who ascend to such high places on the sheer face of the world.

There was a subtle change in the atmosphere, a suction of sound caused by many pairs of ears listening intently.

Noryangjin is a wholesale market where you can choose live fish and seafood from the tanks of different vendors and have them sent up to be prepared in a number of cooking styles at restaurants upstairs. My mother and I were with her two sisters, Nami and Eunmi, and they had picked out pounds of abalone, scallops, sea cucumber, amberjack, octopus, and king crab to eat raw and boiled in spicy soups. Upstairs, our table filled immediately with banchan dotting around the butane burner for our stew. The first dish to arrive was sannakji---live long-armed octopus. A plate full of gray-and-white tentacles wriggled before me, freshly severed from their head, every suction cup still pulsing.

The centre of the village is a void elegantly furnished with a bloody suction.

Oh, God,” I moan at the sensation that’s blowing my mind. I’ve never felt anything like it. The soft, warm, spongy tongue touches the most intimate part of me. His lips surround my clit as he suctions the part that aches the most. I’m on fire, burning internally with the tightness within me, bound so tight I could burst. “There you go,” he murmurs into me, flicking me with his tongue again, making the sexiest smacking sounds with his lips.

Don’t do that shit no mo. You almost made me throw up in my damn mouth. That was too fuckin’ much, and I know you felt me trying to hold the fuck on to my tongue, but yo’ suction cup lip having ass sucked my shit in yo’ mouth like a damn vacuum.” Darius ass had us in here hollering.

Suction the airway frequently or continuously. You can leave the suction catheter in the corner of the mouth or have your assistant suction while you are attempting intubation. If you can tip the patient into trendelenburg (tilted head down) and turn him or her to the left side, the blood will pool away from the larynx and drain from the mouth, giving you a clearer view.

Sleep well, Gonzo?” I ask. He grins and signs something to Pete. “What did he say?” I ask Pete. “You don’t want to know,” Pete says with a grimace. He glares at Gonzo. “Watch your manners, Karl,” he warns. His voice is stern, and Gonzo hangs his head. That’s the first time I’ve heard Pete call him by his real name. Pete stands up and goes to get a fork for one of the other boys. He’s still glaring at Gonzo, and now I’m dying to know what he said to earn such disfavor from Pete. “What did I miss?” I ask, looking back and forth between them. “Some adolescent humor,” Pete grumbles, looking at Gonzo from beneath lowered lashes. Pete reaches for a salt shaker for another of the boys. “Which wasn’t amusing.” Gonzo signs something quickly to Pete. “I know that was meant for me,” Pete says quietly, staring into Gonzo’s eyes. “But she’s sitting right here, and it’s rude to talk in front of her unless I can tell her what you said.” He grumbles something and then says, “And I wouldn’t repeat what you just said for a million dollars.” He holds up his hands as though he’s saying what the fuck. “You don’t talk like that in front of girls, dude.” He jabs a fork at Gonzo. “When we’re alone, you can talk all the shit you want. And it might even be funny.” Gonzo taps me on the shoulder so I look at him. He signs something with his fist close to his chest. The color on his cheeks is high. “He said sorry,” Pete grumbles. Gonzo signs something else and then blinks his eyes at me, batting his thick lashes. “He wants to know if you forgive him.” “I’ll think about it,” I say. I still don’t know what he said, so I don’t know why I should be offended. But Pete’s so serious that I feel like I need to play along. “Gonzo, go ahead and get suctioned or whatever it is you do so we can be ready for the first activity,” Pete says. Gonzo grins and signs something. But he leaves. Pete shakes his head. More boy humor?

Around town, they confused and horrified residents by doing things like dismantling a toaster with a screwdriver at the local department store to make sure the heating coil would toast the bread just so. One employee brought a pressure gauge from the lab into a store to test the suction capabilities of a vacuum cleaner model. Local car salesmen wanted to roll over and play dead when one of the Langley fellas pulled into the lot, fearing a barrage of nonsensical and unanswerable technical questions. They drove to work with books on their steering wheels. The NACA nuts always thought they had a better way to do anything—everything—and didn’t hesitate to tell the locals so.

Hannah snuggled close, putting her fingers into Vanni’s mouth while she suckled. Then the suction broke with her smile. And without quite letting go of the nipple, she said, “Mama,” in a very small, almost relieved voice. And Vanni began to cry. *

Yeah. Get it nice and wet,” Ruxs whispered. He kept his finger deep in his mouth while he leaned in and licked the side of Green’s lips. Holding them flush against each other, Ruxs backed them up until Green’s back hit the window in his dining room. Ruxs lifted the hem of his robe, not caring if someone was down on the street. If they were they’d get a damn good view of his ass. Ruxs slowly pulled his finger out of Green’s mouth and reached around to his ass. With one hand gripping a furry ass cheek, spreading him open, Ruxs rubbed his slick finger around Green’s anxious hole. He braced his hands on Ruxs’ wide shoulders, his head resting in the crook of his neck. Ruxs smelled so fucking good, smelled like his body wash. Green latched on to Ruxs’ throat, sucking up a dark, red welt just above where his pulse beat against his tongue. The more Ruxs pushed that blunt finger deeper into him, the harder Green groaned and the more powerful his suction. “Damn baby. Tight fuckin’ hole.” Ruxs sounded like he was on the edge again already. “Wanna fuck you. Come inside you. Right fuckin’ now.” Green’s ass clenched and twitched around Ruxs’ finger, obviously loving that suggestion. Green hissed as Ruxs pegged his gland. “Goddamnit, Mark.” “Yeah.” Ruxs groaned, pushing in even more, making Green rise up on his toes. Ruxs released a satisfied moan as he pushed in and out of Green’s warm passage. “You want something bigger in your greedy ass don’t you, sweetheart? Want my cock.” Ruxs

God looked peaceful right now; Day hoped it was because of him that he’d not had a nightmare. He watched for a few more minutes before his admiration of God’s beautiful body turned into intense lust and need. His cock was hard and ready for attention. Day slid down beneath the covers and leaned over God’s semi erect dick. He licked his lips before taking all of it into his mouth. Finally. Day released a moan of contentment and licked around the head of the delicious cock before sliding back down to the base. Day had no gag reflex and he loved giving head as much as he loved fucking. He felt a large palm on his cheek and now that God was awake, increased the suction. God moaned and spread his legs, allowing Day room to climb between them. “Good

Rafe set and he added to it by searching out Rafe’s hole. When he brushed over the opening, Rafe’s suction increased as did the pounding his mouth was taking. His nose was buried against Rafe’s groin and he inhaled deeply, the musky scent driving him higher.

THE CRIMSON QUEEN   She comes to me at the mid-nightmare passing Temptress of winter snowfall in black leathers Within the forest where the snakes are hissing Among the moonlit trees and dying heathers Vampiric succubus from homes of the dead Honey in my ear, I recall what was said:   “You will love me, your Queen of the dead Worship me, or I will take your head.”   So I rest my head on her frozen bosom I’m subjugated to her loathsome Sodoms Her fingers, grasping, from the darkest reaches Those lips of suction are just like leeches Entwined arms that offer me no salvation A barbed tongue lapping at my lacerations   “My crimson queen, my strength starts to wane” I cried to her, in pleasurable pain   The blood-red candles have burned down to their wicks Illuminated fantasies born from the sick Manticore mistress drenched in gorgon’s blood I break wide open to release the flood My intestines burst forth, their gushing out Into the black void of Lillith’s mouth

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This what you want, huh?” He pulled her hips off the wall with his spare hand to fit snug against his body. “Me using you like this?” His head lowered to her other breast, replacing the pinching with suction, soothing the stinging tip as his fingers tortured the other. Yes. This. Them using each other. That was what she wanted. What the hell was wrong with that? The irrational anger she’d felt in the car boiled up in her again. “Fuck you,” she panted, grounding her head and shoulder blades against the wall as her left hand ploughed into his hair and she twisted her fingers hard. He didn’t even flinch and that just made her madder.

Grabbing the bowl with both hands, I stepped right up behind him, reached my arms up high, and tipped it over. The sense of glee I got as I watched his entire body stiffen and all that batter fall onto his head was kind of alarming. No wonder he’d been so proud of his suction-cup hickey. I was damn proud of this mess. When only a little dribble was falling from the bowl, I brought the bowl away from his head, set it on the counter, and had only taken two steps when he grabbed me around my waist and hauled me back to him. The movement made him lose his footing on the now-slippery tile and we both crashed down to the floor. Quickly getting up on my hands and knees, I slip-crawled a few feet before my legs went out and I fell back to the floor. Kash dragged me back by my legs and I was laughing so hard I couldn’t even attempt to try to crawl away as he flipped me over on my back and slipped toward me until he was covering my body. I laughed harder and wiped at his cheek, which was completely covered. “You, uh, got a little something there.” His eyes were silver as he growled, “Now do you feel better?” “Much!” “I probably deserved that.” “A little bit.” My laughter finally quieted and I smiled widely at him. “Rachel . . .” His voice dropped and the huskiness alone caused my breathing to deepen. When I realized that our bodies were flush, mine started warming again, and my eyelids fluttered shut when he brought one hand up to cup my cheek. When he repeated my name, I could feel his breath against my lips and they parted in anticipation. His hand left my cheek and he leaned closer to whisper in my ear, “Your hickey looks really lonely.” Wait. What?! My eyes flew open just as he wiped a hand covered in batter across my face. “You son of a bitch!” Kash laughed loudly and attempted to move some of the batter so it wasn’t in my eyes. “I will end you,” I said, making him laugh harder. “I hate you.” “Don’t lie, Sour Patch, you love me.” He was joking, I knew he was joking—but my heart still took off at his assumption. Kash must have noticed the change somehow, because he immediately stopped laughing and his gray eyes turned silver. “Rachel?” “I, uh—we should clean this up.” I attempted to slide out from under him, but he kept his weight on me and brought his hand up to my cheek again. I stopped moving beneath him and locked up my body as his gaze held mine. His silver eyes fell over my face as his head inched down, and in the torturous seconds where his lips hovered over mine again, I told myself a dozen times I needed to push him away. But needing and wanting are two completely different things. Kash closed the distance between us and pressed his lips to mine, and in that instant, I felt like I was exactly where I belonged and my body relaxed between him and the tile floor.

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Suspenders promptly disappeared, and it was all Oli. “Oh Oliver. Oh fuck.” Oli brushed his lips to mine, then trailed up, raining damp kisses all over my face. “Are you going to come?” “Yeah,” I whispered. “I can feel it.” “Do it.” Oli tilted his head against mine. “Give him all of that milk.” I cried out when I came. I couldn’t help but be loud. It tore out of me, urgent and slightly panicked sounding, as I unloaded into Suspender’s waiting mouth. He swallowed everything and kept pumping my shaft like he wanted even more. His cheeks didn’t stop hollowing from the suction until every drop was drained. Sagging

Then fuck my mouth,” he said, a moment before sucking Tim’s erection deep and holding him there. He kept the suction tight but didn’t move, satisfied when Tim began bucking and crying out, the thick head of his cock slamming the back of Tyler’s throat. “I’m coming! Jesus Christ holy fucking...Tyler!

MOURNING OF AZURE As a flowing heart Of slow pale tears Under this mask of pearls Suppress a big red cry Stifle the howler For the swirling blood cyclone The purple bird exhausted From the tree of life The octopuses of the vertigo All their arms embrace him An agony in prey In the kisses of suction cups Pound and shivers Of faded feathers In his last surge Beats of a broken wing Denouncing the unmovable presence Of doors

I noticed some scratch marks and faded blood stains high up on a wall. “What happened there?” “An inmate must have tried to escape. I saw a guy use two suction devices like the ones used to carry glass sheets to help lever himself up. He reached half way before being spotted by a blue shirt.” “What happened to him?” “The blue shirt called a guard. He was ordered to come down, but didn’t. They shot him in the leg, he fell and later in the cell, he removed a blade from a disposable razor, slashed his left wrist then wrote a suicide note on the wall with his right hand – in his own blood. Suicide is really common in here and nobody bats an eyelid.

She suctioned her mouth,

She watched with unblinking, fearful eyes as the face of a smiling mannequin woman cracked open with a rubbery, shearing sound like a soft-shelled egg and four, then five puckering baby doll faces emerged like hungry chicks, oval mouths opening and closing, suctioning like blowholes.

Patients, they wrote, underwent “unnamed tortures when having their hands and feet strapped to the operating table, their heads shaved to the vertex [top of the skull], and the outside world masked from view by the towels and drapes.” Next came the “rattling of the instruments, the noise of the suction apparatus, and the menacing spark of the electro-cautery.” Some patients told them they wanted to die right then and there. Others called for help. These terrifying moments were useful, the doctors assured their colleagues, as the patients’ distress was often so great that the “additional trouble caused by the operation passes almost unnoticed.

I ended up back at the airport before dawn, drinking black coffee from a recycled paper cup and listening to the come-play-me chimes from a bank of slot machines in the concourse. Vegas’s farewell to the tourist traffic, suctioning out the last of their pocket change before kicking them back home. Every minute I spent here was a minute lost forever. I blew on my coffee and tried not to pace.

Paul did his job—brow mopping, hand-holding, encouraging, supporting. It went on for almost an hour and he watched as Vanni got more and more tired and Mel stayed busy getting ready to catch that baby. While Paul supported Vanni he heard Mel say, “Hold it a little longer…right where you feel the pressure…. Okay, take a breath and push again…. Way to go!” Mel spread out the baby towel on the bed, brought her clamps, suction, scissors to the bed. Finally she said, “I think we’re going to hit pay dirt on this next one, Vanni. Make it a good one.” “Make it a good one, baby,” Paul heard himself say. “Ready, push. Push. Push. Push.” Mel handed Paul a blanket. “Spread this over Vanni’s tummy, Paul. When the baby is delivered, that’s where he’s going. We’re going to dry him off and then rewrap him in a clean, warm blanket. Okay?” “Okay,” he said, mesmerized. Vanni reared up again, pushing. Paul did his job, just as he’d been instructed. “All right!” Mel said. “We’re almost there! I think the next push is going to do it, Vanni. Here we go now.” “Okay honey, here we go,” Paul said. In spite of himself, he was leaning forward, watching, wanting to see this baby being born, wanting to be in on this all the way now. He heard the baby cry, heard Mel exclaim happily. He grabbed the blanket, did his job and out of the womb came this mucky, squalling infant. Oh, man, he looked unhappy. “Whoa,” Paul said with a laugh. “He’s pissed!” Vanni laughed emotionally. Paul stared in wonder at the new life, astonished by what she’d done. Astonished that he’d been there. Then he remembered—he was supposed to do things. Together, he and Mel dried the baby, and while he was helping with that, he couldn’t help counting fingers and toes. He watched Mel clamp and cut, then he wrapped the baby in a new, dry blanket and carefully lifted him. Vanni was struggling to pull herself up a little bit, trying to get the pillows behind her back. Paul held the baby in one arm, assisted her with the other. Then he knelt beside the bed and watched as Vanni snuggled the baby close, gently kissed his head. And, Paul, not completely conscious, rested his lips against Vanni’s shoulder. She turned her head and looked into his eyes. Vanni reached up a hand to his face and wiped the tears from his cheeks. Tears he had absolutely no idea were there. “We’re in business,” Mel said. “Good job. Good, good job.” Paul was exhausted. He lowered his head to Vanni’s shoulder and just lay there for a moment, trying to imagine what she’d just been through. He

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present company excluded—and if someone could only find a way to apply enough suction, maybe Parliament would finally get its heid pulled out of its arse and do something sensible for once. These aren’t solutions to the emptiness. They are merely harnesses, safety lines tethering you to the cliff face as your bollocks dangle over the abyss. Absolutely vital to survival, but never a replacement for the great lost love of your life. I lost my wife to an auto accident when we were fifty. I’ve been dangling ever since.

LOVE THE SKIN YOU'RE IN!!!! I ain't sucking in, waist-training, eye-lashin', derma-brasioning, lipo-suctioning nuthin. I earned every wrinkle, stretch mark, belly jiggle, thigh rub, fat knee, cell and ulite on this body and I'm gon' own that ish like a finely aged grandma who done done some thangs in her life.

Memory is a wound, you said. And some things are released only by the act of writing. Unless I go in with my scalpel and suction to excavate, to clean, to bring into light, that wound festers, and the gangrene of decay will eat me alive.

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Fucking nirvana,” he murmurs before suctioning my clit into his mouth. I cry out, pleasure consuming me whole. And he’s right. The way Zade eats pussy is nirvana.

But about six or eight months later, I started falling off. Descending. That’s how depression feels to me. You’re slowly sinking into this quiet place, this numbed out nothing place. Into this rut that has some kind of suction power to hold you down there.” Loshak nodded. He’d never fallen all the way in, but he’d gotten a glimpse here and there when Shelly was sick and in the months after she died. “You’re in pain there, but I think more than that, you’re distant from everything outside yourself. You disappear within the walls of your skull, somehow pulled deeper in like a turtle retracting into its shell.

Then talk about something you like,” I say. “Oh, you want me to do that? Shall I discuss the latest dildo I purchased from an exotic website? Because it has a suction cup and I love using it in the shower.

- The key to holding your downward dogs without wanting to kill yourself and your yoga instructor? CLAW THE MAY. Plug into your fingertips and knuckles when you step into the pose - this will create a kind of suction cup in the palm of your hand that will protect your wrist and be much more comfortable overall. This grip will allow you to balance the weight of your body between both your top and bottom halves, as opposed to bearing the full weight of your body into one joint.

It was like opening a sealed jar with a tight lid. You have to apply heat, push your breasts aside, and lean your weight into it, wondering the whole time if it’s stuck for good, until suddenly there’s movement, the suction releases, and the lid comes off in your hand.

Would you like to see my vacuum?” he asked, and she eyed him as Theo gave an amused snort. “Is your vacuum interesting?” Since this was Wes, Kit had a feeling he could make even boring household appliances fascinating. “Yes. It’s automated, but it doesn’t just bump around blindly like the commercial versions. This one can actually make decisions regarding suction and direction.” “Then yes.” She moved to stand next to Wes, and he gave her a pleased smile. “I’d love to see your vacuum.” When Theo gave a choked laugh as they started to walk away, Kit raised an eyebrow at him over her shoulder. Although she kept her expression innocent, she knew perfectly well why he was smirking like a twelve-year-old.