There's Maureen's hands on her hips, pushing her insistently back until she runs into the bed and tumbles backward, and there's Maureen on top of her, straddling her waist. There's Maureen's lips on hers, and tongue and teeth, and her hands lightly pinning April's wrists to the bed, not that it's necessary. Times like this, there's no resisting Maureen, never mind protesting about Mark or Roger - Maureen touches her, and any thought of the sort goes out of her mind. There's Maureen, and Maureen's hands and teeth and tongue, demanding control, demanding everything, and April gives over, every time.