The month that followed Rex's arrival at the Nightwing estate was not measured in days or weeks, but in the relentless, degrading rhythm of violation.
Time had become a blur of sweat, slick flesh, and the broken cries of four women who had once stood as pillars of strength, now reduced to instruments of Rex's insatiable hunger.
For thirty days, the mansion had become a gilded cage of carnal torment. Rex had not merely fucked them; he had systematically dismantled them.
There was no reprieve, no moment of tenderness, only the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh and the increasingly desperate sounds of surrender.
With Aurelia, he had practiced the art of psychological annihilation. He kept her in a perpetual state of overstimulation, forcing her to ride him until her knees buckled and her inner walls felt raw from constant friction.
