My vision spun.
Stars. Actual stars. Not poetic stars. The "I just got punched by a literal supernova" kind of stars.
My jaw throbbed like someone had jammed a drumstick sideways into it. My cock? Still half-hard. Still pulsing. But twitching on the goddamn floor like a defeated warrior. Crushed pride. Bruised balls. Debuffed soul.
"…Agh… fuck me…"
I muttered hoarsely, hands still cupping my poor, flattened twins like they were sacred relics.
"Asperia, you goddamn landmine in lace…"
And then I saw her.
She was standing by the bed, rising from where she'd been sprawled a moment ago—her inner thighs still glistening, the soaked fabric of her dress clinging between them.
Her chest heaved, flushed and wet, the dress bunched beneath her underboobs like a makeshift belt.
Her nipples—stiff, glistening, kissed red—jutted defiantly from above the fabric. Slick with spit. My spit.
