Not glasses. The white at the edges of her vision, the particular brightness that a full-body release produces in the peripheral field, the light-edges of a nervous system running at maximum.
She lay.
He looked at her.
He looked at the skirt — what remained of it, bunched around her chest where the tearing and the movement had relocated it, the fabric riding up to her ribcage, her pussy bare below and her tits half-covered above.
He reached down.
He grabbed the bunched skirt at her chest.
Like a handle.
Both fists in the fabric, his knuckles against the undersides of her tits where the skirt had gathered, the grip of a man who has identified the convenient thing and is using it.
He positioned his cock.
The head pressed against her entrance — the spread, wet, open entrance of a cunt that had already been taken and was still adjusting to the fact of having been taken and was about to receive a reminder.
He looked at her face.
"You are becoming a woman," he said.
