Ms. Patricia Bloom lay draped across Phei's lap like a woman who'd just been thoroughly, brutally unmade.
Which, to be fair, she had been.
Nine times.
She'd lost count somewhere around the sixth—when his cold tongue and the molten golden pulses of Goddess Fall had blurred every orgasm into one endless, devastating, squirting wave that left her pussy gaping, swollen, ruined, still fluttering weakly around nothing, cream and squirt still leaking in slow, sticky rivulets down her ass crack to pool beneath her jiggling cheeks on the lab desk.
Now she floated in that boneless, starry haze—thoughts sluggish, limbs heavy, every muscle liquid and useless. Her tits rose and fell with ragged breaths, nipples still swollen and red from his cold mouth, clit throbbing in lazy aftershocks, entrance clenching on phantom fullness.
He smiled at his handwork, or rather tongue and mouth, oh, his hands were involved too.
