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Early on, the two men had returned with their coffee. Sir went to carefully wash any bug repellent from his hands before milking her into their mugs. Then they stood back, watching her writhe in the air. She tried to keep her breasts moving, attempting to shoo the things off. The men did not tell her that this had no effect at all. It may have made it more difficult to land, but once one of the fiends had gotten a grip, it rode the wobbling flesh like a bucking bronco, drinking its leisurely fill.
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She heard a zipper. Her writhing, her torture had one of them so excited that he was masturbating. Her tears of frustration redoubled at the realization that they were enjoying her torment.
Eventually they left, bored with their sport. Again, they did not tell her that whether due to the deepening night, the lack of unbitten flesh, or that she had fed every mosquito in the valley, the swarm had dwindled. Also, she had tired out, and now just hung limply, sobbing as she accepted her lot.
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