A body-sculptor sets her eyes on improving a young coyote by way of turning him into a woman. Explicit.
While the beat rumbled away above them, Mel's hands grazed over a gazelle's clay-thick ass. Her fingers stayed in constant motion, like a potter's hands spinning a terracotta vase.
"Like a brick house, yeah?" the gazelle asked. She knew she looked great.
She thought she knew, at least. She'd been breathing in Mel's smoke for a good half hour, and Mel had been telling her she looked great, so she had to look good. If Mel told her that she knew French, she'd know for certain that she was fluent, even if the closest thing she knew to French was that 'si' meant yes.