Angela looked up at her—eyes half-lidded, lips curving into a lazy, knowing smile. "Look at you, limping over here like a well-used bride… did he stretch that tight little ass of yours good this morning too? I heard you begging at dawn… sounded like you were crying for more."
Mira froze mid-step, a mortified whimper catching in her throat. But she didn't retreat. Instead, she closed the last distance—awkward, wobbly—and dropped carefully to her knees beside Angela, one hand hovering uncertainly over her swollen pussy before finally resting lightly on her inner thigh.
"It… it hurts so much… but it feels… good too…" Mira whispered, voice cracking. "Yours looks… so puffy… like it's still begging…"
Angela hummed low, spreading her legs a fraction wider—shameless now—letting Mira see every swollen detail: the way her lips parted slightly on their own, a thin string of wetness stretching between them, the faint bruises blooming where my hips had slammed into her over and over.
