The specific, architectural fact of it — generous, full, the kind of weight and proportion that belonged to a woman who had lived in a body for a significant number of years and had produced it with the time and the living — presented upward, the skirt bunched at the waist, the thick flesh pale in the hotel light.

A tail.

A butt plug, the base of it shaped into the decorative arc of a fox tail, seated in the stretched ring of the woman’s ass with the comfortable certainty of something that had been placed and left there — and the tail itself, soft and dark, resting along the small of her back.

Her legs were bound at the ankle and wrist.

Her face was in a pillow.

The panty stuffed in her mouth — visible at the corners of her lips, the elastic showing — was doing its job adequately but not completely, the muffled sounds finding their way out around the edges.

Her thighs were wet.

The inner surfaces of them — visible from this angle, from the lifted position the pillow beneath her hips had created — glistening with the layered evidence of several hours of use.

Yuna stared at the ass.

At the stretch marks along the outer hip — the particular, honest markings of a woman’s body that had expanded and contracted with time and experience.

"Woah." The word came out before she processed it. "There’s already another woman here."

"You were two hours late," he said again, same tone.

"So you—"

"Found something to do, yes."

She looked at the ass.

At the tail.

She felt something in her chest that she classified as ’jealousy’ after a moment of consideration — the specific, hot compression of a feeling that did not have clean outlets — and her jaw tightened slightly.

"Who is she."

"You know her."

Yuna looked at him.

Then at the woman on the bed.

The words ’you know her’ arrived in her chest with the specific weight of something that needed to be verified and that she already understood she would not like verifying.

He moved.

Across the room, the way he moved across rooms — unhurried, his cock swinging with the easy, heavy pendulum arc of a man who had nowhere to be — and he reached the bed and his hand found the woman’s hair.

He lifted her head.

The face came up from the pillow — tear-tracked, glassy, the panty still at the corner of her lips, the eyes half-lidded with the specific, overwhelmed vacancy of a woman who had been in this room for several hours and had stopped having clear opinions about where she was.

The eyes found Yuna.

Yuna’s brain processed what it was seeing.

It processed it a second time.

It processed it a third time and arrived at the same answer and sent the answer upward and the answer arrived in the part of Yuna that handled the social and familial dimensions of her existence.

"AUNTIE—"

She stepped backward.

Her heel caught the edge of the carpet and she went down — the full, graceless drop of a young woman whose legs have received news from above that they were not prepared for — and she landed on the floor with her back against the wall and her eyes very wide and her hands flat on the carpet.

"AUNTIE — WHAT—" She scrambled upright, pointing at the bed, pointing at Raven, the pointing not resolving anything but being the only thing available. "What are you DOING to her — WHY is she — RAVEN — what have you—"

Jennifer’s eyes, above the panty, tracked to Yuna.

The expression in them was not the expression of a woman being rescued.

It was more complicated than that.

The embarrassment was there — the hot, comprehensive mortification of a woman being seen in this specific configuration by a person who knew her son’s name — but underneath the embarrassment was the other thing, the thing her body had been doing all day in direct contradiction of her preferences, and both things were present in her eyes simultaneously.

Raven looked at Yuna on the floor.

He looked at Yuna the way he looked at things that were proceeding according to schedule.

"She needed it," he said, and his voice had the warm, conversational ease of a man explaining something that should have been obvious. "Her old one is too disappointing."

He reached forward.

His hand found the base of the tail.

Jennifer’s body went immediately, involuntarily rigid — the full-body anticipation of a woman who knew exactly what that grip on that base was the prelude to — and the muffled sound she produced through the panty was not the sound of someone bracing for something unwanted.

He pulled.

The plug came free with a wet, audible give.

Her ass, released from the stretch of it, clenched immediately — and then opened again, the trained ring of her doing what training does — and he picked up his cock and positioned it without preamble.

He looked at Yuna.

Yuna was looking at his cock.

At the base of it against Jennifer’s exposed entrance.

At Jennifer’s hands — bound, but gripping the sheet with the white-knuckled force of anticipation rather than resistance.

"She needed another child," he said.

His hips moved.

PHAAACKK!

"AAANGHH~!!"

The cry tore through the hotel room and hit the walls and came back, and Jennifer’s thick body slammed forward across the bed with the impact, her heavy ass clapping back against his thighs, the full, generous flesh shaking outward from the point of contact in the long, rolling wave of it.

Her eyes, rolling upward, found Yuna’s through the tears.

Yuna sat on the carpet of Room 412 of the Hotel Marseta with her back against the wall and her soon-to-be aunt’s eyes locked on hers, and she did not move, and she did not look away, and the thing she felt in her chest was not entirely and only horror.

PAH! PAH! PAAAH!

"AAANGHH~!! HNGH~!! AAAHH~!!"

"!?!!"

"WAIT—"

Yuna was on her feet before she had finished the word.

"WAIT — what are you — STOP—"

PAH! PAH! PAAAH!

"AAANGHH~!! HNGH~!! AAAHH~!!"

Jennifer’s thick body drove forward with each thrust — the full, heavy slide of her across the hotel sheets, her bound wrists straining against the rope, the pillow beneath her hips compressing and releasing with each impact — and the sound of it filled Room 412 with a density that the soundproofing was doing its honest best to contain.

Yuna stood at the foot of the bed.

She stood there with both hands open and no plan.

The cognitive distance between ’stop him’ and the physical reality of Raven mid-pace was the kind of distance that measured itself in consequences, and Yuna, who was not unintelligent, was processing that distance in real time.

What she was looking at:

Her aunt.

Jennifer — the woman who had pressed warm cake into her hands every time she walked through the bakery door, who had hugged her with the particular, encompassing softness of a woman whose body had been built for warmth, who had looked at Yuna with the specific, maternal approval of someone who had decided she was good enough for her son—

That woman.

Face in the pillow.

Ass presented to the room.

The thick, full, familiar weight of her body that Yuna had been pressed against in a hundred hugs now receiving Raven’s cock from behind with the wet, carrying smack of each thrust and the specific, comprehensive evidence of several hours of prior use running freely down her inner thighs.

"Auntie—" Yuna’s voice dropped. The yelling had run out of energy. "Auntie, I’m — I’m right here — are you—"