She reached forward.

Her fingers found the panty at Jennifer’s lips — the soaked, ruined fabric stuffed there — and she pulled.

It came free.

Jennifer gasped.

The first ungagged breath of a woman whose mouth had been occupied for longer than was comfortable, raw and immediate — and Yuna leaned in, her hand on Jennifer’s shoulder, and said:

"I’m here — it’s me — Yuna — he’s going to—"

PAH! PAAAH!

"AAANGHH~!!"

Jennifer’s eyes rolled back.

Her mouth, newly free, produced a sound that was not a cry for help.

"Yes — YES — harder — don’t stop — fuck me — FUCK ME HARDER — MASTER — impregnate me — give me a new child — IAAAANGHH~!!"

Yuna’s hand went still on her shoulder.

She looked at her aunt’s face.

The expression on it — the open-mouthed, tear-tracked, completely unmanaged expression of a woman whose dignity had been disassembled over the course of a full day and who was now operating entirely on the raw, honest output of what had been built in its place — was not the expression of a woman who needed saving.

"FILL ME — DON’T STOP — HNGH~!! AAAHH~!! MASTER — PLEASE—"

Yuna stepped back.

The memories arrived in the gap her forward momentum had vacated.

Jennifer at the bakery counter.

The flour on her apron. The specific, home-warm smell of the place. The way she always set a plate out before you’d asked, because she had already looked at you and determined what you needed. The softness of her arms around Yuna’s shoulders when Yuna had been seventeen and had cried about something she couldn’t remember now but had felt enormous at the time.

The thickness of her. The warm, generous architecture of a woman who fed people, who made things, who showed up.

That body.

Jiggling forward with each thrust.

The heavy breasts she had been pressed against in a hundred embraces now dragging across hotel sheets, the nipples Yuna had never had occasion to think about now visibly swollen against the fabric.

The full, soft ass — the ass Yuna had spent childhood sitting next to on kitchen stools, the ass that had been present at every family-adjacent meal for eleven years — presented upward and receiving Raven’s cock with the trained, devoted grip of a body that had been educated in a single day and had proven an efficient student.

"MASTER — YES — GIVE ME A CHILD — AAANGHH~!!"

Yuna stood at the foot of the bed with her hands at her sides.

The thing she felt was complicated.

She was still processing the complexity of it when Raven’s hand found her collar.

The grip was familiar.

Not gentle — the certain, efficient grip of a man who had decided something and was implementing it — and Yuna looked down at the hand holding her dress and then up at his face and said:

"Wait—"

"You don’t need this."

The fabric tore.

Not carefully — the clean, direct rip of force applied to a seam that had not been designed to resist force — and the front of her dress opened from collar to mid-chest, the fabric falling apart, and her breasts came free with the specific, full momentum of things released from constraint.

"RAVEN—"

His fingers found her nipples.

Both of them. Simultaneously. The grip — pinch, pull — applied with the practiced certainty of a man who had learned today exactly what this produces and was applying the lesson. 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

Yuna’s legs folded.

Not a decision. Her knees simply revised their position on weight-bearing and she pitched forward, her body falling into his chest, her arms wrapping around him reflexively in the way arms wrap around things when they are the only architecture available.

Her face hit his bare chest.

His skin was warm.

"It hurts—" Her voice, muffled against him, the complaint of a person who has been caught between pain and the specific proximity of a body they have been thinking about for fourteen months. "Raven — that ’hurts’—"

Behind her, from the bed, Jennifer:

"AAANGHH~!! HNGH~!! DON’T STOP — MASTER — PLEASE—"

Raven looked down at Yuna’s face against his chest.

"Today," he said, warm and certain and entirely without preamble, "I’m going to deflower you."

Yuna went still.

The words arrived and she processed them and her brain, which had been managing several competing inputs for the last several minutes, cleared entirely and delivered a single, clean output:

’’Finally.’’

She hated that the output was ’finally.’

She hated it with the specific, helpless sincerity of a young woman who had been walking around with the word ’finally’ stockpiled in her chest for fourteen months every time he had been near her — every time he had fucked her ass with the patient, thorough attention that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing and had decided to do it in a specific order — every time he had looked at her and said ’not yet’ in the way he said it, which was not cruelty but something that functioned like it.

"You—" Her voice. "You said — in front of—"

"Yes."

"In front of Gareth."

"That was before."

Her leg moved.

She had not told her leg to move. It rose — wrapping around his hip, her thigh finding the angle, her body pressing into him with the instinctive, full-length contact of a woman who has been waiting for a permission she has just received and is now acting on the receipt.

Her jeans. The thick fabric of them against his cock — the heavy, pendulous fact of him against the denim over her inner thigh — and she ground into it with the small, helpless rotation of hips that were not asking permission.

"AAANGHH~!! YES — HARDER — MASTER—"

Jennifer, from the bed.

Raven’s eyes were on Yuna’s face.

Yuna’s eyes were on his.

Below them and between them, the situation: one woman currently being fucked on the hotel bed, crying out in the degraded, grateful language of a person whose body had been thoroughly restructured, and one woman wrapped around a man who had just said the word she had been waiting for.

PAH! PAAAH!

He thrust once more into Jennifer — the deep, conclusive stroke of a man completing a set — and Jennifer’s body lurched forward across the sheets, her ass clapping back against him, the flesh shaking, her voice:

"IAAAANGHH~!! FILL ME — MASTER — DON’T—"