makeshift

He makes an appreciative noise and I realise he has pushed my knees deeper for a clearer view. I wriggle in protest at the discomfort of exposure so he simply sinks his weight heavier on my hips and pauses while we gently battle until my thighs eventually spread further to a rigid, open acceptance. 

Because it incenses me he lets fall from his mouth a frothy puddle of saliva with a practised aim. The hot spit floods the crease between my cheeks, shockingly wet on the most sensitive spot on my body, a marker for his intent.