The first load

Something changed in Paul's bearing. Izzy was far too far outside herself to be able to process what it was, but she could feel the vibration in the floor as he adjusted where he put his foot. The rhythm changed, too. Faster. How was that possible? Her neck ached and her vision swam. Pathetic, wet noises were whimpering from her mouth. Thank God you didn't let Mina talk you into lipstick, she thought. The mascara was bad enough. It was running down her cheeks now. She got little tastes of it and salt when her tears slipped between her lips.

"Fuck-ing Christ!" Paul grunted between bobs of Izzy's head.

It was just as she had gotten a steady pace going with her hand. Ward leaned into her grip, patient as Job. At least she made for a good whore. She was crying, and not just because of Paul. And as much as she wanted them to be otherwise, conscience and shame sounding alarms in all systems, they sure weren't tears of sadness.

Paul's hips started to spasm. The deeply felt, percussive sound of him hitting the back of her throat came faster, but unpredictably. His fingers made a mess of her hair. Izzy’s own hand stalled on Ward’s cock as her body braced for whatever came next. She couldn't breathe. Mascara and spit painted her face in sticky trails. Now, finally, she caught a glimpse of Mina. She sat crosslegged on a bearskin rug, chin propped on her fist. It was like she was watching a movie.

A sound came up from the bottom of Paul's ribs. “Fuck, you goddamn slut, I’m gonna...”

He pulled out fast. Izzy’s mouth hung open. Her tongue was still curled to the shape of him. Cold air hit her lips. And then Paul was there, stroking himself. What, like her mouth wasn't good enough?

The first rope landed across her chin. It burned. The white slipped down her jawn into the hollow of her throat. She flinched, but her body stayed rooted to the floorboards, knees aching, spine bent like a question. The second struck her upper lip and the bridge of her nose. For a second she was blind, and then she blinked it down into her wrecked mascara. More followed. On her cheek. The corner of her eye. A long, pearly streak across her forehead where she was covered in sweat. Paul aimed the last of it to pool in the divot above her collarbone, warm as bathwater. Then it slid down the front of her borrowed bodysuit.

She felt it drip. It plastered the fabric to her chest. Onto her hand, the one still, vainly, wrapped around Ward. Onto the floor between her knees.

Paul stepped back, breathing hard, already fumbling for his jeans. “Jesus,” he muttered, not to her. Not about her.

Izzy didn't wipe her face. She could the semen tightening as it dried. Her stomach turned as shame rang in her ears. Nevertheless, she couldn't find the energy to lift a hand to clean herself up.