Day after day, night after night. Each tick of time passes Mystic Flour Cookie by, like the small movements of an inchworm. Slowly, but surely, leading them all to staleness and indifference. That is what she believed, after all. Nothing is worth desiring in the end.

However, she would make an exception due to a certain Cookie. She was the name. And that beautiful cookie had been there with her since before the Ancient Cookies formed.

She appreciated her loyalty, and would soon show exactly how much she appreciated it.

Clothes had been shed, and there lay her and Mystic Flour Cookie, the two women-cookies intertwined in passion and lust. Her legs were hitched over Mystic Flour Cookie's shoulder, her hand placed over the cookie's thighs loosely as she steadily thrusted the strap-on in and (almost) out of her lover. The ivory tiles were cold, but provided coolness for their soon-to-be overheating pastry bodies.

"Do you feel it, my love?" Her voice was monotonous, like it usually was. "My appreciation for a devotee like you."

Her pace was steady and constant, her touch—though mildly warm—grounding.