ALMA’S POV
One man stepped forward, holding a bottle of wine. He tilted it slowly, pouring a dark red stream into the hollow of my belly button, letting it trickle lower, down over the lips of my p***y, across the curve of my ass. The liquid stung at first—sharp, foreign—before melting into warmth that made me arch against the velvet.
Another man came with a bowl of cream. Thick, white, sweet-smelling. He spooned it over my breasts, letting it drip down my curves, over my n*****s, coating me until the lace clung wet and sticky against my skin. He smeared it with his fingers, painting me like a canvas meant for consumption.
Then another—his hands rougher, holding something darker, heavier, thicker. I couldn’t tell what it was, only that it poured slow, rich, almost obscene in its weight.
