Viktor gestured. Berenga and Lucia moved. They opened the tent flaps. The evening air, cool and fresh, flooded in. The square, empty now, was dark. Lanterns, lit along the main road, cast pools of yellow light.
Myra tried to stand. Her legs, fucked for six hours, gave out. She stumbled. Her hands, reaching for the desk, missed. She would have fallen.
He caught her.
His arms, under her back and knees, scooped her up. Princess carry. Her body, limp and trembling, was cradled against his chest. Her skirt, riding up, exposed her thighs. Her panties, ruined and displaced, were visible. The cum, still leaking, ran down her leg and onto his arm. Her bra, askew, let one breast spill free. The nipple, stiff and leaking milk, was exposed.
He looked down at her. At the priestess, the holy woman, the vessel of divine power, in his arms. At her naked hip, the skirt bunched at her waist. At her exposed breast, the milk beading on the nipple.
