Mustrums Bloody Johnson retched thick wads of lust yogurt inside Esme's long since dried and unexplored sinkhole. She grunted an acknowledgment for his service to the lancre coven, deflating his impressive salt shaker into a Hoho along with his ego.
She knew she had him. Treat him mean, keep him keen. It had only been fifty years since he began their courtship, and she was worried this acceptance of his morpork sludge, down below, where the sun does not shine, might make her as wanton as Gytha. Still, it does a witch good to spend some time on her own pleasure, lest she turn out like her sister.
She shifted her layers to the side. Esme was only wearing seven of them, almost naked.
She smiled.