Eleanor lets herself into the penthouse with the private key code, the soft beep echoing too loudly in the marble floored foyer. Every step is a small torture, a deliberate negotiation with her battered body.
Her thighs burn with the fire of overextension, muscles quivering like they had been tested to their limits and found wanting. Her p***y is swollen shut, throbbing with every heartbeat, the lips so puffy and tender that the whisper of her emerald dress rubs them raw, sending unwelcome sparks of sensation up her spine.
She walks like someone who has been split open and left that way. The cool air of the air conditioned home chills the sticky trails between her legs, a constant reminder of what sh had allowed, what she craved.
Julian is already home from the gala, of course. He's in
