Deepwood Weald you waiting at ho[m]e for me saying what time do you call this?

The shore disappeared from view as Lotte was dragged abruptly under, floating weightlessly in an endless chasm of pleasure. Speech was beyond her; even the beloved syllables of Arturo’s name fell away. Indeed, if not for the taut grip of his jaws around her scruff, she felt she could have turned to liquid and evaporated into the very atmosphere. She spoke to him with the rhythm of her arching back and flexing hips, with the quickening rasp of her breath that caused her muzzle to part and her tongue to loll — and she sang for him, an ancient and undulating song composed of silvery whines and whimpers and low, guttural moans that scraped the bottom of her vocal register. And when at last he eased from her and their entwined souls retreated to the confines of their separate bodies, Lotte turned to him appealingly with a starry look in her argent eyes. Stay with me, begged the thump of her tail and the coquettish tilt of her head, for even in the wake of their shared passion she had not shed this new and yet intimidating vulnerability. She didn’t trust her voice yet, and merely whimpered softly to him, trying to wriggle nearer with an insistent hum of need.