"I-I have dementia," Thalia blurted, the pathetic excuse slipping past her trembling lips as her ears burned a bright crimson. The pooling heat between her legs was becoming impossible to ignore. She tried to shift, rubbing her thighs together to move away from the massive hardness wedging itself between them—but in doing so, she inadvertently parted her legs wider.
That was her fatal mistake.
She felt it twitch violently against her, springing straight up—growing, thickening with terrifying speed—hitting her right above the thin, frayed fabric of her floral dress. The sheer size of it easily stretched the material, the blunt, swollen head finding the exact space between her lower lips, pressing tighter, firmer, branding her with its heat.
It felt like she was sitting on a scorching metal rod.
