They showed her everything: the elegant woman, a mother, now trembling like a supplicant, lips swollen and bleeding where she'd bitten them raw, thighs slick to the knee with her own desperation.
They showed me behind her, shirt half-unbuttoned and clinging transparent with her sweat, eyes glowing faintly (because they always glow when I'm this deep in the god-space), mouth wet with the taste of her skin.
I had kissed and licked and bitten every inch of her that wasn't breast or cunt until her entire body was one open wound of pleasure. She was shaking so hard the chaise creaked beneath us.
And then the tears changed.
They weren't the sharp, frantic tears of denial anymore. They were slow, heavy, ancient. They carried twenty-five years of silence with them.
I felt it the instant it broke open in her chest, felt it like a seismic shift inside my own ribs. Her thoughts flooded me, raw and unfiltered:
