On the screen, Cassiopeia's spine performed a small, involuntary correction, a graceful betrayal that spoke volumes. The teacup, held by the iron composure of long Maxton training, did not rattle. Her face remained exquisitely arranged, a masterpiece of serene deception. But her thighs clenched harder, the elegant line of her skirt shifting along the lush swell of her left thigh.
A small, darker patch had begun, very slowly, to bloom on the dove silk where the fabric had been pressed too long against an interior that had been weeping its small, civil tribute for over an hour — a glistening confession of her soaked, desperate cunt.
Eira hummed with wicked delight.
"Beautifully done."
"Thank you."
"She'll murder you on her return."
"I disagree; she'll want me to fuck her. Hard and fast."
"I anticipate that."
