Fina stood there for a moment—just drinking it in.
The silence, thick and sticky as the cum puddling across the floor. The heavy breathing. The broken moans. The wet plap of twitching holes still leaking proof of their ruin. And the smell—oh gods, the smell. A cocktail of sweat, pussy, ass, cum, and shame that clung to the air like incense in a blasphemous temple.
Her golden eyes swept across the room like a predator surveying a massacre.
Lady Rhelgar lay slumped over a toppled chair, her legs splayed indecently, dress ripped to rags, tits out, nipples raw, her pussy still gaping like an unsealed wound. Allen hadn't even touched her yet—but the fear alone had made her leak. She was twitching, sobbing quietly, one heel broken, the other still on. A noble reduced to a leaking whore just by watching.
