He pulled out.

Jennifer’s body dropped. The full, limp forward fall of a woman whose legs had stopped contributing — her knees folding, her torso collapsing against the bed, the thick weight of her landing with a soft, final impact, her bound legs spread, her cunt exposed and wet and painted with the accumulated evidence of the evening, fluttering around nothing.

He grabbed Yuna’s hair.

The hand going from her back to the roots at the crown — the pull that tilted her head back and her eyes upward — and he ’walked’ her forward, his grip directing her body toward the bed with the same efficiency he directed everything.

She went.

Her knees hit the mattress.

Her face came level with Jennifer’s spread legs.

"Look," he said.

She looked.

The gap of her aunt — the hairy, swollen, glistening cunt that had been worked and filled and had spent the last several hours being used as Raven saw fit — fluttering in the open air, the folds wet and parted, white seed running slowly from the entrance and pooling on the sheet below.

Yuna stared at it.

’’That is my aunt.’’

’’That is Gareth’s mother.’’

’’That is what happens.’’

He was stroking his cock.

Two, three strokes — the deliberate, unhurried pace of a man building back to full tension — and Yuna turned her face just in time to see:

The first rope of his seed.

It hit Jennifer’s exposed cunt directly — the thick, warm arc of it landing across the hairy entrance and running — and the second landed across Yuna’s lips.

She made a sound.

The sound hit the room before her brain had processed what had happened — the warm, salt, immediate reality of his seed on her mouth — and her tongue moved, and she hated her tongue for moving, and it moved anyway.

"Do you see that."

His voice above her.

She was looking at her aunt’s cunt — painted white, the hairy entrance fluttering — three inches from her face.

"That’s what your pussy will look like." Warm. Certain. The tone of a man describing something that has been decided. "When I’m done with you."

Yuna’s thighs pressed together.

Her jeans were damp at the seam.

She said nothing because there was nothing in her current vocabulary that adequately addressed the situation she was in, which was: kneeling on a hotel bed with her face six inches from her aunt’s used cunt while her boyfriend’s seed was on her lips and the word ’finally’ was still reverberating through her chest.

His fingers found her jeans.

The waistband.

"Up," he said.

He lifted her hips.

The motion brought her face ’forward’ — the upward tilt of her pelvis behind her forcing her upper body down, her face descending toward the bed, toward the wet sheets, toward the warm, dense, intoxicating smell that the hotel sheets had absorbed — the layered, pungent, undeniable scent of everything Jennifer’s body had produced over the course of the evening.

Her face was in it.

She could smell her aunt.

The specific, intimate, entirely wrong reality of the scent filling her nose with each breath, her lips inches from the wet sheet, the warmth of the evidence of Jennifer’s day against her cheek.

"NNGH~—" She turned her face. "Raven — the smell is—"

His hand found the thick fabric of her jeans.

Pulled.

The denim tore at the seam.

Not the zipper — the ’seam’, the force of a grip applied to fabric that had not been consulted about this — and the back of her jeans opened, her panty exposed to the hotel air, and then his fingers hooked the fabric and ’tore’ again.

The panty went with it.

Her bare pussy, presented to the room behind her — the full, untouched reality of it, the tight, virgin folds that had been kept exactly this way by deliberate, patient decision for fourteen months — and the cool air arrived on the warmth of her.

She shivered.

His cockhead found her.

The blunt, warm pressure of it — the nine inches of him that her ass knew and her pussy did not — pressing against the entrance with the specific, certain weight of something that had decided to arrive.

"Raven—" Her voice. Finally losing its composure. Finally sounding like what she was: a young woman on a hotel bed with her face in the scent of her aunt and her boyfriend’s cock at her virgin entrance. "Raven — wait — it’s — wait—"

"Congratulations," he said.

He slammed three inches.

"IAAAANGHH~!!"

The scream that tore out of Yuna hit the room at full volume — the raw, unmanaged cry of a girl receiving something her body had no frame of reference for, the stretch and the tear and the blinding, white-bright signal of first entry — and her face drove forward with her body’s lurch.

Forward.

Into Jennifer.

Her open mouth landing directly on the exposed, wet heat of her aunt’s cunt, the involuntary impact of her face making contact with the hairy, swollen folds — and the specific, reflexive clench of her teeth at the moment of impact—

Jennifer’s hips ’rocketed’ upward.

"AAAANGHH~!!"

The two voices hit the room simultaneously — Yuna’s deflowering cry and Jennifer’s sharp, electric response — the double register of two women screaming together, the hotel walls receiving both and returning them, the sound of it filling Room 412 with the specific, impossible harmony of two people experiencing two entirely different versions of the same terrible, irreversible moment.

Yuna’s hands slapped flat on the sheet on either side of her aunt’s thighs.

Jennifer’s bound hands grabbed the headboard.

Both of them shaking.

Raven looked down at the configuration of the two women — one delivered and ruined, one newly begun — with the warm, satisfied expression of a man whose schedule was proceeding correctly.

He pushed slowly.

SCCLHHHH

"AAANGHH~!! I-it hurts!" — Yuna.

"HNGH~!!" — Jennifer.

"HIEEKK~~R-Raven."

Yuna was smiling.

Not wide. Not the open kind.

The small, private curve that sits below crying — the smile a person produces when something they’ve carried quietly for too long has finally arrived, and the arrival hurts, and they are smiling anyway.

Yuna’s face was in the sheet.

Her ass was up.

Three inches of him inside her and her whole body broadcasting the information simultaneously — every nerve running the signal upward at once, the tight, virgin stretch of her pussy walls reporting this in the direct, undeniable language of flesh that had never been asked to do this before.

’He’s inside me.’

’He’s finally—’

SCCLHHHH—

Four inches.

"Hnn—HNGH~!!"

The sound tore out of her muffled against Jennifer’s thigh. Her fingers dug into the sheet. Her toes curled inside the torn wreckage of her jeans still hanging from one ankle. The stretch was not the stretch of the ass that she knew — not the deep, pressurized fullness of that — this was different, the specific, sharp burn of tissue being coaxed open that had never been open, the delicate inner walls spreading around the thick intrusion one slow, honest centimeter at a time.

She loved him.

She wanted to be able to say it felt good.

She wanted this — had wanted this — had counted the specific number of times he had looked at her and said not yet and had added each one to the running total of her patience.

This was the payment on all of it.

It burned.

’Why does it—’

’I knew it would — the other women said — but knowing and—’

SCCLHHHH—

Five inches.

A strange sound. Wet. Tearing-soft — the hymen, stretched beyond its tolerance, yielding with the unhurried inevitability of something that had always been going to yield — and Yuna’s eyes went white.

"IAAAANGHH~!!"