Sunday morning came like a hangover made of shame.
I woke up alone in my own bed for the first time in two days. The sheets were stiff with dried c*m—mine, theirs, layers of it. My thighs stuck together when I tried to move. My hole throbbed with a dull, constant ache that wasn’t quite pain anymore. It was… awareness. Like my body had learned a new language overnight and couldn’t stop speaking it.
I tried to be normal.
Showered until the water ran cold. Scrubbed every inch like I could erase Marcus and Ethan’s fingerprints. Brushed my teeth until my gums bled. Opened my laptop, answered three work emails with shaking fingers. Pretended the weekend hadn’t happened.
But my c**k never went fully soft.
It hung heavy between my legs, half-hard, leaking a slow, steady drip that soaked throu
