The thought was a bitter ache, sharper than the physical stretching of her flesh. She felt a profound sense of mourning for the version of herself that existed only minutes ago, the untouched, pure Nerith.
That girl was dying with every violent, wet thrust, replaced by this panting, broken creature who was being forced to find pleasure in the very thing that was destroying her dignity.
'I am... being rewritten,' she thought with horrible clarity as Rex's pace reached a fever pitch. 'He's engraving his name on me... and there's no way to wash him out.'
The rhythm was a blur of madness now, frantic. The slow and deliberate torture had become a violent high-speed assault that made her brain reel.
Each thrust was no longer a distinct movement but a continuous overwhelming wave of pressure crashing against her core, leaving her gasping for air she could barely catch.
PLAP! PLAP! PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!
