Later in the evening, a sweaty, unhappy Gwen is left trapped in a sink. After all that happened in the day, intimately in contact with both feet and backside, paired with her own sweat from the heat of elven buttocks, Náriel declared Gwen too smelly to continue using, and abandoned her in a sink of soapy water. This happened from time to time, once her toy was used so much that it began to be noticeably smelly, it'd be left to get cleaned.

Gwen felt almost loved at these times – soap was expensive, and regular fresh water would have been enough to clean. But she sat in the sink, bathing, then rinsing. Operating the faucets above her was tricky, especially when slippery, but achievable. Plus, she had no way down. The height of the sink was only a few feet up, but for her that was akin to falling from a tall building. Not deadly, but she would be left in pain.

Gwen was actually growing bored of being stuck here, idly slapping droplets falling from the tap above, when she was suddenly grabbed. She never heard Náriel come in! Expecting it to be someone else, she looks down to the familiar delicate fingers that manipulate her so much.

“Welcome home mistress!” she shouts up at her quickly. Náriel doesn't respond like she usually does, carrying the minuscule redhead in one hand back to her bedchambers. Sitting in her chair and watching the sun setting beyond her garden walls, she fiddles with the little human. Gwen is curious as to what's happening. This is all different to usual.

Then, painfully held by ankles and wrists, she's bought up to the red lips of her elven mistress. She can smell wine, which would explain the somewhat faded lipstick. She has a dark thought, what if she's drunkenly devoured, and confined to a wine-filled stomach... Would Náriel remember this?

“Mistress, what...” She manages to ask. Náriel parts her lips and extends her tongue, running it along the human's front in one long, slick, wet motion. This sensation excites Gwen intensely, but of course, hides it in favour of her acted fear.

“Please mistress, don't do-” She's cut short as her face is the focus of the tongue for quite a long time. Her mouth fills up with elven saliva before being allowed to cough, the tongue now curling round her bust. Still, what's going on? Is Náriel preparing to devour her? She's being tasted like never before, licked all over. Before long, no part of her is dry or clean.

In the past, She was moistened for other reasons, but now Gwen finally fears her service to her elven mistress might truly be nearing its end... and that idea drives her wild.
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