The Curse's output of songs had fallen off, in any case. Neither Anna nor Michelle had been writing much in six months and Mick, alone, was trying to compose stuff he really didn't have a feel for. He was drifting away from the thrash and back to his roots. Karen suggested he was just a reheated folkie and Mick didn't disagree.Mick Johnson was first and foremost a classically trained guitarist. Rock music had been overlayed on that foundation and he'd taught himself the blues style - a natural extension of seventies rock. He could do folk, flamenco and, at a pinch, Country and Western, and could make a living from session work - if that work was available in quantity.Mick needed to work at something. For the past two years he'd thrown himself into shaping and guiding The Curse, playing the music and touring, and enforced idleness was unnatural. He'd been living fast and hard and the sudden stop was frightening.He'd wanted to call Donna the minute he touched down, but was worried that. Her own wetness, and his, drove her into uncontrolled imagination. Thoughts of men, objects, demons flashed through her collapsing mind in seconds as her body went rigid and a rippling wave of orgasm brought her to the heights of release only to let her crash down again as it passed. She lay there panting hard. And still the tongue lapped on. She now knew better than to relax. She allowed her body to do as it wished. She no longer wanted to control it. It wasn't a part of her. Her mind was now the centre of all her pleasure.She moaned slightly as he lost contact with her body. Then she moaned louder as she felt her buttocks being gently pulled apart and the very tip of that tongue, that bringer of ecstasy, touch the outside of her anus. A light, feather-like contact. With a circular motion it licked its way around the rim. Her body melted into liquid as she felt the softening and opening of the tiny entrance. Her mind made no reflex movement to stop the total surrender. Her moaning.
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