Chapter 7: The Aftermath Begins
The silence after Alina left was total.Not peaceful. It was the silence of a vacuum, sucking all sound and meaning out of the room. March lay fused to the leather, a hollowed-out shell smelling of juniper, sex, and his own bitter release.He couldn’t feel his hands or feet. The city lights bled across the ceiling, formless and gray.
Laura unbuckled the leather restraints with a series of soft, definitive clicks.Each one was a minor earthquake in his world of numbness. She didn’t speak.She simply pulled his arms down, his legs together, and waited. After a minute, he managed to roll onto his side, curling instinctively around the wreckage of his groin. A shudder wracked him, dry and convulsive.
“Come on,” she said, her voice stripped of its usual theatrical lushness.It was just a voice now.Tired.Real.
She helped him stand.His legs buckled instantly, and she caught him, her body surprisingly strong under his weight. They shuffled like that, a grotesque three-legged race, past the dark bar with its empty bottles, through the penthouse’s wide hallway.The plush carpet swallowed the sound of their steps. He focused on the pattern, the geometric swirls, to keep from thinking about the wet, cooling mess on his stomach, the phantom pressure on his bladder, the taste of salt and shame that coated his tongue.
The bathroom was a cathedral of white marble and chrome, lit by recessed lights that were too bright. Laura marched him straight into the open shower, a square of gleaming tile and multiple showerheads.She turned the handle. Icy water blasted from above and from the wall, a shocking, needle-sharp assault.He gasped, stumbling back, but she held him in the torrent. “It needs to be cold,” she said, over the roar of the water. “Shock the system back online.”
She let go of him and he slumped against the wall, the marble painfully cold against his shoulder blades. She stepped out of her heels, peeled off her own damp dress without ceremony, and stepped in beside him, still in her underwear. She took a stiff, boar-bristle brush and a bar of soap that smelled aggressively of charcoal and pine.
“Arms up,” she commanded.He didn’t move. She took his wrist and lifted it for him, then began scrubbing his underarm. The bristles scraped over the hypersensitive skin where Mireille’s drops had fallen, a brutal, cleansing abrasion.He hissed.
“Shh,” she said, but it wasn’t soothing.It was procedural. She worked in methodical, rough strokes: chest, stomach, the sticky trails of his own spend. She pushed him to turn, scrubbing his back, the red welts from the silk bindings. She knelt and scrubbed his thighs, his calves, his feet.The water ran pink, then milky, then clear.
When she finally attended to his cock and balls, the brush was merciless. He whimpered, his hands flexing at his sides.
“It’s just a thing now,” she said, scrubbing the softened, spent flesh.“A piece of meat that caused a lot of trouble. We’re cleaning the meat.”
The absurdity of it, the clinical detachment after the transcendent violation, unlocked something in his chest.A sound escaped him, halfway between a laugh and a sob. It caught in his throat.
Laura looked up at him, her face slick with water, her hair plastered dark to her skull.For the first time all night, she looked her age. Tired.Human.“There he is,” she murmured.She stood up, turned off the water. The silence was immediate and ringing. She wrapped a thick, black cotton towel around his shoulders and roughly dried him, her movements efficient, almost parental. She dried herself, pulled on a white terrycloth robe hanging on the door, and handed him another.“Put this on. We have guests.”
He blinked water from his eyes.“What?”
“The women.Well, some of them. A few stayed.” She tied her robe loosely and opened the bathroom door, steam billowing out into the cooler hallway.“They’re in the dining room.They’ve ordered food. They’re waiting for you.”
He stared at her, the robe hanging limp in his hand. The numbness was receding, replaced by a low, vibrating dread.“I can’t. Laura, I’m… I’m done.You saw. I’m empty.”
She leaned in the doorway, crossing her arms.“You spent six hours as a god being worshipped. Then you spent ten minutes as a baby being broken. Which one was harder?”
He looked away, at the drain where the last evidence of him was swirling away.
“Exactly,” she said, her voice regaining a sliver of its old, knowing edge.“The test of endurance was a joke. Holding out against pleasure?That’s just vanity. What comes after the breaking… that’s the part that matters.Now come on. They’re waiting.”
He pulled on the robe, the fabric soft and alien against his scrubbed-raw skin. She led him not back to the living room cavern, but to the formal dining room, a space he rarely used. It was all sharp angles and a long table of reflective black stone.Five women sat around it. He recognized them from the earlier rotations: Anya, the final, relentless blonde; Chloe, the brunette with the hypnotic, deep-throat technique; Isabelle, the redhead who used her hands like a virtuoso; and two others whose names he’d forgotten. They were all washed, dressed in casual clothes—jeans, sweaters, clean faces. They looked like friends after a concert, not participants in a sexual siege.Plates of sushi, dim sum, and bowls of fragrant noodle soup covered the table. The room smelled of ginger and soy.They stopped talking as he entered. Their eyes weren’t hungry anymore.They were curious.Appraising.
“Look who’s alive,” Anya said, popping a piece of tuna roll into her mouth.Her tone was light, almost friendly.
“Sit,” Laura said, pulling out the head chair for him.It was a command. He sat, the robe gaping slightly at his chest.Laura took the seat to his right. “Ladies, you witnessed the main event.You saw his… culmination. Impressive volume, wasn’t it?”
Chloe nodded, sipping sparkling water.“Epic.Kind of disgusting. Really epic.”
“Thank you,” Laura said, as if accepting a compliment. “But as we all know, a performance is a dialogue.And March here has been a very receptive, if stubborn, listener. He hasn’t said a word. He hasn’t given anything of himself beyond the biological.”
Isabelle swirled a dumpling in chili oil.“So what’s the plan? An interview?”
“A reversal,” Laura said, smiling. She placed a hand on March’s arm.Her touch was warm.“The new rule is simple. For the rest of the night, your job, March, is to please us.”
A cold knot tightened in his gut. “Please you?”
“Not like that,” Chloe laughed.“God, look at him. He’s fried.No, we mean actually please us.Talk to us.Listen.Make us laugh. Be charming.Fetch things.Tell stories.You hosted a party to show off your legendary control. Now host a party to show us you’re actually a person worth knowing.”
Anya leaned forward, her elbows on the table.“We poured a lot of effort into you, darling. A lot of technique, a lot of spit, a lot of jaw-ache. We’re curious about the mind behind the monument.”
March looked from one face to another.The predatory glint was gone. In its place was a casual, challenging curiosity. They had dismantled his body, and now they wanted to pick through the pieces of his psyche.It was, in its way, a more intimate request.
“What if I don’t want to?” he heard himself say, a faint echo of his former arrogance.Laura leaned close, her voice a whisper only for him. “Then the night ends with the memory of you sobbing on the chaise as your mother drank you dry. That’s the final image. That’s your trophy.” She leaned back, her smile bright and false for the table.“He’s just being shy. Someone ask him a question.”
Isabelle raised a finger.“Okay.Why?Why do this? Not the sex—anyone with that… equipment… would have a lot of sex.Why the spectacle?”
All eyes were on him. The steam from the soup rose between them. He was naked under the robe, surrounded by women who had, hours earlier, been fighting to make him fail.He had nothing left to shield himself with.
He cleared his throat.The truth was simple and pathetic. “To see if I could,” he said, his voice rough.Chloe snorted.“Yeah, we got that. But why this?The audience?The marathon?The… the binding?”
He looked at Laura. Her gaze was steady, waiting. She had orchestrated it all, but she was waiting for his answer, too. He thought of the tension, the glorious, terrible strain of holding back while the world focused solely on his pleasure.The power of it.The isolation.
“Because it’s the only thing that’s entirely mine,” he said slowly, the words forming as he spoke them. “My control.My stamina.In here, with all of you trying to take it… it becomes real. Solid.Otherwise, it’s just a… a fact.Like having brown eyes. This made it a feat.”
Anya considered this, nodding slowly. “So it was about making your curse into a crown.”
He hadn’t thought of it that way.He nodded.
“Fair enough,” Isabelle said.“But feats are boring after you’ve seen the trick. People are more interesting.” She pushed a bowl of miso soup toward him.“Here.Eat something. You look pale.”
He stared at the bowl, then at the women. They were waiting, but not with hunger.With expectation.A new kind of test had begun.He picked up the spoon. The first hot, salty sip was a profound, simple pleasure. He let out a small, unconscious sigh.Laura watched him, a different smile now touching her lips—not triumphant, but satisfied. The game had changed. The real work of the night, the work of being seen, was finally starting.
The soup was warming a path through his hollow core when the dining room door whispered open again.All heads turned. Alina stood there, bathed and changed into a silk robe of deep crimson, her damp silver-streaked hair brushed back. Her face was soft, cleansed of its earlier triumphant mask, leaving only a raw, possessive tenderness.She looked only at her son.
“Marchik,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.
He set down his spoon, the familiar childhood diminutive unlocking a deep, fractured part of him. Before he could speak, she crossed the room in quick strides, her robe swirling around her ankles.She ignored the other women completely. Her hands cupped his face, her thumbs tracing the dark circles under his eyes, then she pulled him into a fierce, enveloping hug. His nose pressed into the familiar gardenia scent of her shoulder.
“My beautiful, strong boy,” she murmured into his hair, her arms tightening around him. One hand slid down his back, pressing him closer, while the other cradled his head. She rocked him slightly, as if he were a child who had just endured a great ordeal.Laura watched, a soft, unguarded smile on her lips. Her earlier clinical detachment was gone, replaced by a look of genuine affection for both of them. She rested her chin on her hand, observing the reunion with quiet approval.
After a long moment, Alina pulled back just enough to look down at his body. Her gaze traveled over the open front of his robe, past his chest, and settled on his lap. His cock, softened and resting against his thigh after the shower, had begun to thicken again under her scrutiny, the sheer visual attention and physical contact stirring a dormant, autonomic response.It stirred, thickened, and began to rise. “Still so magnificent,” she breathed, her eyes wide with pride and naked desire.“Even after all that. A true White Russian stallion.”
March, despite the bone-deep fatigue, felt a surge of familiar pride at her words.He shifted in his chair, allowing the robe to fall open completely. He reached down and took himself in hand, not to stimulate, but to display. He gave his length a few lazy, confident strokes, watching his mother’s rapt expression. “It hasn’t gone anywhere, Mama,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “See?”
“I saw what it gave me,” she whispered, her own hand reaching out to trace the prominent veins. “Such a generous flood.I could feel the power of it.”
Anya choked on her water across the table. Chloe’s fork clattered against her plate. All five women were frozen, their earlier casual curiosity vaporized by the scene unfolding before them. Isabelle’s knuckles were white where she gripped the table edge. They watched, a gallery of pent-up frustration and aching want, as a mother worshipped her son’s anatomy with unabashed lust.
“Show me again,” Alina urged, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Show me how much you can make for me.”
March met her eyes, a flicker of his old arrogant challenge returning.He focused, his body straining though emptied. A moment passed, then a thin, clear arc of urine spurted from him, landing with a soft patter on the marble floor between them. It was a trickle compared to the previous torrent, but it was proof of function, of residual capacity. He grunted with the effort, his muscles standing out in his neck.Alina made a small, hungry sound in her throat. The women at the table collectively held their breath, a symphony of clenched jaws and burning faces. Laura’s loving gaze never wavered, taking in the complex, taboo beauty of the display. March, spent and shaking, looked from his mother’s proud, desiring face to the circle of women watching in horny, jealous agony, and felt, for the first time that night, truly seen.
March, spent and shaking, looked from his mother’s proud, desiring face to the circle of women watching in horny, jealous agony, and felt, for the first time that night, truly seen.That feeling was a spark on dry tinder. He straightened in the chair, pushing the robe completely off his shoulders.It pooled around his waist. The air in the room was cool, but a different heat was building in him now, a defiant, showman’s fire. “You like the veins, Mama?” he asked, his voice gaining a rough edge as he ran a thumb along a thick, roping cord on the underside. “See how they feed the crown?”
He was already thickening, the flesh responding to his own touch and her ravenous gaze with a stubborn, physiological pride. It was a painful resurgence, a reanimation of battered tissue, but he leaned into it. He gripped himself at the base, squeezing to make the engorgement more pronounced, to highlight the sheer density of it. “It remembers you,” he grunted, the head darkening and swelling, pushing past his fist. “It knows who owns it.”
Anya muttered, “You have got to be kidding me,” but she didn’t look away. Chloe’s fingernails dug into her own thighs.Isabelle’s breath was a shallow, rapid thing.
Alina’s hands were trembling. She sank to her knees on the marble floor, heedless of the damp spot from his earlier display.Her eyes were pools of incandescent hunger. “It’s a masterpiece, Marchik.A brutal, beautiful masterpiece. And it’s mine.” Her declaration hung in the fragrant air, a claim that stripped the pretense from the room. The other women were just furniture now, witnesses to a private sacrament.
He began to stroke himself, a slow, possessive pumping meant for her eyes only. The slide was dry and harsh, a grimace twisting his features, but the purpose was clear: exhibition. A thin, pearly bead welled up at the slit, a promise pulled from his exhausted system. “See that?” he panted, swiping it with his thumb and holding it up for her to see. “It’s starting again.For you.”
“Yes,” she hissed, her composure vaporizing. Her elegant facade crumbled into raw need.“All for me. Give it to me.”
That was all the permission she needed. Her hands shot out and clutched his hips, her nails biting into his skin.She didn’t kiss or tease.She attacked. She took the swollen, massive head into her mouth in one desperate, deep plunge, her throat constricting around him instantly with a practiced, greedy choke.The sound she made was a muffled sob of triumph.
March cried out, his head slamming back against the chair. His back arched, driving himself deeper into that wet, claiming heat. His hands flew to her hair, tangling in the silver-streaked knots, not to guide but to anchor himself against the shockwave of sensation.It was nothing like the calculated techniques of the night. This was feral, consuming, a reclamation.The women were statues. Laura watched, her lips parted, one hand absently rubbing her own throat in sympathetic feeling. The sushi sat forgotten, condensation weeping down the water glasses.
Alina worked on him with a frenzied, suffocating rhythm, her nose buried in his pubic bone, her jaw stretched obscenely wide. She gagged and sputtered, pulling back only to let a string of saliva tether her to his glistening tip before diving again, drinking him down like she was dying of thirst. Each time she descended, a ragged groan was torn from March’s chest.His thighs trembled violently. The earlier marathon had been a siege; this was a sacking.
His balls, drained and sore just minutes before, tightened against his body in a painful, gathering clench. The pressure built not as a slow crest, but as a sudden, violent detonation. “Mama—I’m—!” The warning was strangled.She didn’t pull off. She redoubled her efforts, humming around him, her eyes squeezed shut in ecstatic concentration.
The first shot was a convulsive blast, hitting the back of her throat with a force that made her shoulders jerk. She swallowed convulsively, urgently. The second and third were weaker, but more voluminous, a hot, salty flood that filled her mouth and leaked from the stretched corners of her lips. She milked him through it, her hands clawing at his ass, pulling him into her face until he was empty, spent, and limp in her mouth once more.
She finally released him with a wet, gasping pull, her makeup smeared, her chin glazed. She looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears and a profound, unsettling joy.She licked her lips clean. “My good boy,” she whispered, her voice ravaged. “My perfect son.”
March slumped in the chair, utterly destroyed.The display was complete. The room was silent except for Alina’s ragged breathing and the low, shuddering rhythm of his own. He had given her everything, again, and in the doing had crossed a frontier from which there was no return. The faces of the other women were a blur of shock, arousal, and a dawning, uncomfortable understanding. Laura simply nodded, as if a difficult equation had finally been solved.
Laura simply nodded, as if a difficult equation had finally been solved. The silence stretched, taut and fragile, until Anya cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, her voice unnaturally bright. “That’s a fucking bookmark for the therapy journal.” A brittle laugh escaped Chloe, quickly stifled.
March didn’t hear them. His world had narrowed to the searing point of contact where his mother’s thumb now stroked the hypersensitive skin of his inner thigh, to the metallic taste of spent adrenaline in his own mouth. His breath hitched. A deep, stubborn tremor began in his core, a cellular revolt against total emptiness. Despite the crushing fatigue, a low heat was rekindling, fed by the raw hunger in Alina’s eyes and the stunned audience around them. His body, traitorously, was responding.
Alina felt the faint, twitching resurgence beneath her palm. Her eyes snapped to his, a wild question in them. He gave a barely perceptible nod, his jaw tight. A smile, terrifying in its tenderness, broke across her face. She stood, her knees popping softly, and offered him her hand. “Stand up, Marchik,” she murmured, the command velvet-wrapped.
Using her for balance, he pushed himself up from the chair, his legs wobbling. The black robe slipped to the floor. He was naked again, exposed under the clinical dining room lights, but the vulnerability had shifted. This was a deliberate unveiling. He looked past his mother to Laura, then to the circle of women. Their faces were pale canvases of shock, but beneath that, he saw the unmistakable glint of captivated horror. It was the same look he’d sometimes seen from the windows of fast cars.
“You all worked so hard for a taste,” he said, his voice scraped raw but clear. “You got your drops, your sprays.” He placed a hand on Alina’s shoulder, feeling the fine silk of her robe. “She got the flood. But you didn’t see the beginning.”
Alina turned within his grip to face the women, leaning back against his chest. Her head tilted to look up at him. “Our little secret,” she whispered, loud enough for everyone.
“What secret?” Isabelle breathed, her chopstick suspended over a forgotten dumpling.
“My birthday,” March said, his fingers tracing the line of his mother’s collarbone through the silk. “I was asleep. She woke me up.” His other hand slid down, palming himself, coaxing a dull, aching fullness back to life. “She taught me that a gift isn’t something you’re given. It’s something you take.”
Laura’s chair creaked as she leaned forward, her professional composure melting into sheer, avaricious curiosity. “Show us,” she said, no hint of lightness left. “Show us the first lesson.”
Alina turned in his arms, her hands sliding up his chest. She kissed him, not like a mother, but with a decades-deep carnal knowledge that made Chloe gasp. “For them, zvezda moya?” she whispered against his mouth. “My star?”
“For us,” he corrected, and guided her down onto the cold, polished marble floor.
The geometry of their bodies reconfigured with a practiced, ruthless efficiency. There was no tender exploration, no hesitant buildup. This was a rehearsed violence. He lay back, his head coming to rest near the leg of the dining table. She straddled his face, her crimson robe falling open, and lowered herself onto his mouth with a guttural sigh of homecoming. Simultaneously, she took him back into her own, swallowing him down to the root in one smooth, suffocating plunge.
The 69 was not an act of mutual pleasure. It was a contest of consumption. He devoured her with a frantic, starving intensity, his tongue spearing deep, his nose buried in the musky, gardenia-scented folds of her. She rode his face with a relentless, grinding rhythm, her juices smearing across his cheeks and chin. And all the while, she fucked her own throat with his cock, her head bobbing with a pneumatic speed that denied him breath, let alone thought. The sounds were animalistic: wet slaps, choked gags, the raw scrape of his stubble against her skin.
Anya looked like she might be sick, but she didn’t turn away. Isabelle’s hand was clamped over her own mouth. Laura watched, unblinking, her lips moving silently as if cataloging every detail.
March felt a pressure building, different this time. It wasn’t just seminal. It was deeper, a liquid expansion in his bladder that screamed for release alongside the tightening in his balls. The dual assault—the taste of her, the feel of her throat milking him—shattered the last vestiges of his control. He pushed upward against her weight, his hands gripping her hips to flip her.
He broke the seal of her mouth with a gasp, his cock sliding out with a slick pop. “On your knees,” he rasped, the command leaving no room for argument. “Now.”
A look of pure exultation flashed across Alina’s fluid-streaked face. She scrambled, eager, onto her hands and knees before him on the marble. She presented her face, mouth open, eyes wide with worship. He stood over her, a colossus of reconstructed defiance. He took himself in hand and guided the swollen, purpling head to her lips.
This wasn’t a blowjob. It was a face-fucking, a reassertion of dominance. He held her head steady by a fistful of her silver hair and pushed forward, piston-like, fucking the tight, welcoming cavity of her throat. Each thrust drove her nose into his pelvis. She gagged, tears streaming, but her eyes rolled back in a blissful stupor. Her hands clawed at the air, then at her own body, fingers diving between her legs.
“You see this?” March growled to the room, his voice breaking with the strain. His hips hammered forward. “This is who owns it.”
Alina’s body began to jerk. A high, keening wail, muffled by his flesh, vibrated against him. Her thighs clenched and then she was squirting, a透明透明的透明透明的透明透明的透明的喷泉透明透明的泉流透明喷泉 of clear fluid jetting onto the marble in powerful, rhythmic gushes, painting the floor beneath her. The sight of it, the visceral proof of her extreme submission, triggered his own cataclysm.
The two releases became a synchronized eruption. As her body convulsed, expelling its own fluid, March gave one final, brutal thrust and held himself buried. A hot, stinging arc of urine shot down her throat first, a bitter preamble. She swallowed desperately, her throat working. Then cameLaura simply nodded, as if a difficult equation had finally been solved. Around the table, the women stirred: exhales that had been held too long, shifting of thighs pressed together to dull the ache. Chloe picked up her water glass and drained it without breaking eye contact with March.
His chest heaved beneath the gaze of all of them, tacky with sweat and mother's spit. The chair creaked as he sat up, not a retreat but a gathering. His cock, still slick from her mouth, lay heavy against his thigh, and when he looked at Alina there was something new in his eyes.
Not the old arrogance repaired. Something stranger.
Alina felt it through her connected pulse to him and parted her stained lips. The lipstick was almost gone, a ring of bruise-black smudge at the corner of her smile because his mother knew destruction was also a way of knowing your children. "Nearly perfect," she said to him, but loud enough for the women to hear. "Wake up tomorrow I expect a bruise where your five o'clock shadow met my cervix to those of you shamed on this earth knows no better love."
At the table, Laura shifted forward very slightly, inhaling amber wine from a stemless glass lost into her palm.
"Isn't it hotter that you know nobody here did it better than her throat depth just now?" And Laura nodded again, one long stroke of compliance flashing back over the memory.
Isabelle's skin prickled goosebumps into the silk-blend sleeve of her cardigan folded on the lacquer table. She whispered something into Anya's ear that neither March nor his mother caught. Laura rose slowly from her seat, shrugging a sleek hair once built of leather off old tricks known to organizers of devotions.
"Round two doesn't send the dancers home before requited the paid contract," Lauda said calm.
March rose with roughened steadiness. He did not ask anyone's permission. He reached around his hips and excrurted the spawn from his pelvis with smae energy three breaths before collaps set their parts in need.
"True control," March announced weaves grinding through his broken chest akin new swagger coated in mother's stomach acids sloaned along his foreskins trench.
To the entirety of those slouching beyond his fury into dresses designed by greed themselves only gawking he offered the plan we once shared in wild darkness to your knowing presence entirely for observation of flesh myth lived retold accurately and in live transmission beyond propriety's thin veil. It required no explanation from their own palates to taste March pulling bis mother sprawl-spent onto his shaft faced scissor away from silence near Laura visible.
Still water poured wasted from gaping before sapphire had carried candlelight. The naave of his throat poised over silver, jaws descended angled as opening beast during those original weak before lightlessness: wide nineteen-birth unchailing buried chin. Skull flush to rigid jut under headful gulped him into incineration; another first summer repeated physical debt through swig intake covering philtrif and eyebrow gut now under collimated tears of happiness she emptied wasted across carpetting only can claim significance to newly woken seed.
The kneeling came soon: she didn't know who shaped action—their limbs sharing one of three agreement unbound by sound—she was breath-ridden beneath palacio architecture onto marble dining giving crown to harvest of rut. Kneecaps locked cold with abandonment not torment offered reverently to stage ownership Laura shared flickered thighs open, dim without covering isolate secretation so their field completed feast display true original days lost not after repeated in full skin for grown artistcraft final last willing beast.
Sucking returned deeper than any predator seeks bone March arrested the pillars of his rooted stance— planted along dominions of her upraised face whose throat housed scream enough rupture of tidal might tearing higher pitched as she squirts a shock— repeated profused into wet velvet of pantyhose laid shredded floorward— witnessment exacted overflow onto Laura's wrists flecks, onto brazen cheek Chloe wearing now laugh tremor mascot dismay in pearling souvenir attached wetness lshe's crying not mercy elnby. The sound of the old piano throbbing chain below, muffled countdown beginning.
Snot and cum ran over curve guarding not milk the walls onto carpet lining auction from nowhere; even March shaking with muscle bulged granite seam against tilt releasing yet trapping ever again The geyser twist his rib and fire dam bore open with baptism steads us and yews— eruption matching massive deliver further break his already primal throat across knot going splits At emptying his nature through spinal iron.
Alina belcolling her hunger spent he let cold run ming where before none flooded scl area gaping— salt rolling collected year down his shine from release married harvest bound root far separate not died They callfinished. March staggering over one knee felt the marble somehow softer. He coughed, cleared tearing glance at congregation with twenty eyes a few that teared.
He withdrew and hung her limp onto arch descending his hammer depth slowly gluing towards released volume of spirit the contract demanded. Breathing became seven wiccirculating pulse before Laura coughes the first sound room had dither since beginning.
"Well into hosting women slake what they witness daily anywhere says could f: : else ..."
Around the scattered ruins of once strong posture rebuilt now dripping fine of recollection, the dining room