The back seat of the car was destroyed.
There was no other word for the state of the upholstery — the combined evidence of the last hour soaked into the fabric in layers, seat covers dark with wet, the floor mat below pooled with what had run off the edge.
Thalia sat in the middle of it.
Completely naked.
Her blouse hung open off both shoulders, the buttons gone from earlier. Her skirt was bunched around her waist still, because removing it had never become relevant. Her stockings were in two separate pieces somewhere in the footwell.
She looked like exactly what she was.
A woman who had been thoroughly, comprehensively used in the back seat of a car and had somewhere between protested and participated and had lost track of the exact moment when one became the other.
She looked down at his cock.
Still half-hard. Glistening. The combined record of the last two hours coating every inch of it in a filthy, detailed report.
She looked at it for exactly three seconds.
