The first light of dawn crept through the curtains, casting a pale glow over the tangled mess of sheets and bodies in Oliver's room. The air still carried the musky scent of their night's debauchery, a mix of sweat, cum, and the faint tang of potion-fueled exertion. Oliver stirred first, his muscles aching but sated, the weight of Isolde's petite frame pressed against his chest and Serena's voluptuous curves sprawled across his legs. He groaned softly, blinking against the light, his mind replaying the wild threesome that had left them all wrecked.
Isolde shifted beside him, her white hair a chaotic halo around her face, a sleepy smirk tugging at her lips as she nuzzled closer. "Morning, master," she murmured, her voice husky from the night's screams. Her hand lazily traced circles on his chest, brushing over the faint red marks her nails had left.
