She could feel it in her throat. In her temples. In the swollen, wet flesh between her legs that had not stopped throbbing even while her eyes burned.
She looked down at herself.
The indigo silk dress. The heavy, royal, dark blue fabric embroidered with silver thread. The high collar. The long sleeves. The skirt that pooled around her on the floor.
There was a dampness.
A dark, visible, undeniable patch of wetness on the front of her skirt, between her thighs. The fabric was darker there, clinging to the shape of her mound. The outline of her pussy was visible through the wet silk — the swollen lips, the parted cleft, the erect nub of her clit pressing against the fabric like a small, desperate finger.
She stared at it.
Her hand — the hand that had been rubbing her eyes, that was wet with her tears and the mercury water — moved downward. She pressed her palm against the damp patch.
The heat of her own body radiated through the silk.
She was soaked.
