update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/motes/004.html

@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 <p>Motes cried. She hung limply and cried before that long-dead version of herself.</p>
 <p>This was not supposed to happen.</p>
 <p>Michelle/Sasha sneered through that omnipresent exhaustion. &ldquo;Some mote who styles herself Motes. Some grasper-after-fame. Some fetishist who wishes only to taint the Ode with lurid visions of youth.&rdquo; </p>
-<p>In her free hand/paw, this ghost  brought into being a dagger, silver-bladed, wood-hilted, ruby-pommeled. She reached out and slowly, almost tenderly, pressed it into Motes&rsquo;s paw. Holding her wrist, she brought that paw up so that the tip of the blade was pressed against the skunk&rsquo;s neck, pricking at the skin over her jugular. When she let go, Motes found her paw remained there, immobile, unresponsive to her efforts to pull it away.</p>
+<p>In her free hand/paw, this ghost brought into being a dagger, silver-bladed, wood-hilted, ruby-pommeled. She reached out and slowly, almost tenderly, pressed it into Motes&rsquo;s paw. Holding her wrist, she brought that paw up so that the tip of the blade was pressed against the skunk&rsquo;s neck, pricking at the skin over her jugular. When she let go, Motes found her paw remained there, immobile, unresponsive to her efforts to pull it away.</p>
 <p>&ldquo;This is your kink, is it not &lsquo;Motes&rsquo;? Your fetish, &lsquo;Speck&rsquo;? &lsquo;Skunklet&rsquo;?&rdquo; Sasha/Michelle leaned forward, nearly nose to nose, whispered, &ldquo;<em>&lsquo;Dóttir&rsquo;?</em>&ldquo;</p>
 <p>Motes sobbed. &ldquo;Please&hellip;&rdquo; she managed at last.</p>
 <p>None of this was supposed to happen. None of this was right.</p>