He turned her.
The motion was smooth, decisive, the movement of a man handling something that belonged to him. Her heavy body spun, her feet slipping on the wet tile, her hands reaching out to find purchase. Her palm slapped against the wall, the cold tile meeting her skin with a shock that made her gasp.
He pushed her.
Her heavy tits pressed against the tile — the full, dense, mature weight of them flattening against the hard surface, the stiff nipples scraping, the wet blouse clinging like a second skin. Her thick ass presented outward, the heavy globes lifting, the skirt bunched around her waist, the plain cotton panty exposed and damp and clinging to the hairy, swollen lips of her cunt.
She realized then.
As his hands gripped her hips — the broad, strong, mature width of them — and his cock pressed against the seam of her panty, she realized something that made her cry harder.
He was above her.
In the ranks.
In the blood.
He was royalty.
