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When he rose from her, the woman released his hand and with it, held her labia apart. She slid first one and then another finger into the centre of herself and groaned with the pleasure as she pushed them deep. Then, with devilment sparkling in her eyes she held the fingers to him. ‘You filthy whore,’ he murmured, but still took her fingers into his mouth. He made a show of licking each digit, moaning as he did so. His wife smiled and opened her legs wider. ‘Taste me,’ she murmured. ‘Come here and lick me.’ He climbed onto the bed and knelt on it with his knees between her legs. He looked at her sex, her mons nearly smooth save for the strip of pubic hair at the apex of her cleft. Her labia pouted loose and engorged and he growled in appreciation already positioning himself before her. He pressed his mouth to her body and was rewarded by a deep groan. ‘Fuck …’ she panted as he worked on her. ‘That’s … Oh … God … Don’t stop, please … Don’t ever stop.’ Her hands forced his face tighter. She looked at the audience with tears in her eyes. She made a pleading motion and tried to speak, but only a sob came out. Those in the front row pushed back in their seats, as if trying to move away from the spectacle.The killer stripped Leona's coat off and threw it away. Underneath she had several more layers of clothing (it was the coldest night of the year when Leona Ciarelli was murdered, Rose remembered reading), which the killer also stripped. The last garment, a flimsy undershirt, he threw into the audience. It landed in the lap of a man who cried out as if he’d been burned by it. Leona was left almost naked in the spotlight. The killer forced Leona to stop covering herself with her arms, and she sat there on her knees, her small, round breasts exposed and her pearl-white skin on display for everyone to see. With an air of malicious casualness, the killer fondled Leona’s naked body. His big, coarse hands kneaded her small breasts, and when he touched the flat plane of.
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