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He made it to five before she summoned her courage and tentatively dipped her hand into the pot. What theatre! The drawn-out contemplation. The reluctant distaste as she dipped her hand into the cold slop. That priceless shudder when she confronted that first pinch of ropy slime. The hesitation. The gathering of determination, The look of pure revulsion as she inched it closer to her face. The look of nausea when she put it to her lips. Actually seeing her stomach heave, her throat gag. The torture she put herself through with every subsequent little taste. Pure art!
He kept his amusement to himself, not wanting to break her concentration. Of course she would have to be punished later for not enjoying it, but why remind her when this was a win/win situation. He let her finish the slime in her own good time, first picking all floating bits, then scraping strands that clung to the sides and bottom, and finally, when it passed his inspection, she was allowed to raise the pot to her lips and drain the milky broth.