Maya was awake first. She had been awake for hours, suspended in that strange, liminal space between exhaustion and hyperawareness.
She was the last one still in motion last night, the last one convulsing, the last one screaming until her vocal cords felt like they had been flayed raw. Mike had stopped first, collapsing into a heavy, oblivious stupor, sleeping with the complete, terrifying absence of residue that only comes from someone who has utterly consumed what was in front of them.
Now, she sat propped against the headboard, her body feeling foreign to her. Every muscle fiber screamed in protest.
Her thighs felt hollow and swollen, still slick with the drying evidence of Mike's relentless claim. When she shifted slightly, she could feel the uncomfortable, heavy fullness deep inside her womb, the literal weight of his seed, a warm, intrusive reminder of how thoroughly he had filled her.
