Thirst.

As Alice Fairbourn's eyes open, a flood of soreness washes over her. Almost everything was either sore, sticky, or stank. Her tongue felt like sandpaper, and as she craned her head up to view the devastation of the battlefield her chastity was lost on, she let out a soft groan of annoyance.

She runs her hand across her belly, sticky with their combined sweat, and over her mildly-damaged womanhood. As she runs a finger over her clitoris and looks over at the now softened meat that caused it, she's surprised how little the pain is coming from below. When she traces the outline of her slit, she feels a slimy glob of seed bubble to the surface.

She bites her lower-lip and hooks it onto her finger. She plays with it between her fingers, smelling it's overwhelming masculine scent that make her smile absently. Then she brings her tongue across the pearly orb, and to her shock, enjoys it's taste. A thick heady blend of salty and bitter, only the texture betraying it as a desired edible. She fantasizes about opening her mouth, and letting Malcolm shoot the fresh seed he's making in his balls, across her tongue and into her mouth when he wakes up. Wondering if it would taste better if it was fresher, warmer.

The satanically fetishistic idea is quickly squashed in her mind, it's too late, and she's got to head home, or her father will find out his daughter is an out-of-wedlock slut. As she quietly climbs off the bed, and slips off to shower, she lets herself think about what she's done. If she let her lust get the better of her, if her father and pastor were right.

Shampoo falls down her body, and she looks at it in a new way. She was a woman now. And the smile that came to her face was all she needed to know. She washed it from her hair quickly, dried herself thoroughly with Malcolm's Hermione beach towel that he got ages ago.

Now having a worryingly young girl, carrying far too many books, rub his naked body seemed far more sinister than she previously has ever considered. She puts the thought out of her mind, grabbing one of his old t-shirts off the shelf and sliding it on. It hangs down to her knees, and the soft fabric makes her feel oddly comfortable in a way nothing else ever has.

She heads downstairs, cautiously, making her way to the kitchen. She opens the fridge to find three cans of strawberry Fanta, to which she helps herself to one. She swallows half the can before even realizing, washing away the scaly feeling in her mouth, before looking over to see the lights on in Mr. Lee's personal gym. She breaths deeply taking another sip and walking over mindlessly.

Mr. Lee opened a bank chain that became pretty successful, sold it to OneUnited for a comfortable amount during the bank rush in the early 2000s and retired; not even 40. He started getting into personal fitness, built a beautiful home gym in his dinning room, but she's never actually seen him use it.

She knows he used to be big into civil rights in the 70s, and once met Muhammad Ali, which is his go-to story. Other than that Mr. Lee is just the firm but nice guy, who wears traditional African garb around the house, and lets her drink strawberry Fanta out of his fridge while she's hanging-out with his son.

When she crests the dividing column, she's stunned by what she sees, and smells. Mr. Lee is lifting weights, naked. Sweat is cascading down his body, his cock flailing with each repetition. Then the bar slips, and he's straining every one of his jacked muscles pushing up on the bar with unsure grip. She see one of his arms beginning to buckle and she races over to grab the bar, offering what little help she can.

She works her way behind the bar, planting both feet and jerking her entire body up. After much exertion, the bar crests the holders and drops into place. When she leans down over it, she catches her breath, but in so doing fills her nostrils with the eye-rolling potency of his masculinity.

It takes a moment before she realizes she's made a terrible mistake. Malcolm's shirt hangs down over his face. Revealing to him the unmistakable view of her bare, bruised pussy to Mr. Lee. Which leaves nothing left to hide about her relationship with his son.

He says nothing as he recuperates, she steps back in panic. "Mr. Lee, are you ok?" she says meekly, not knowing how to broach the "other" topic. "Yeah, I'm gonna make it." He reaches up and wipes off the slimy substance, she now realizes leaked from her, from his forehead. Quickly, he brings it to his mouth and sucks it off his clasped fingers. "Taste like cum... and arousal." to this her knees buckle and she sits looking up at him practically whimpering in fear.

"Relax girl, I grew up in the 70s. I'm happy my boy has a woman to come home too." He pauses to catch his breath, "It makes a man's head clearer and fills him with confidence to be with pretty girls like you." he looks back at her with a raised eyebrow, "You always struck me as a girl who would save herself for christian marriage, though. I hope my boy hasn't taken advantage of you?"

She takes a moment to steel her nerves, everything seemed fine, but she knew the floor was invisible and any wrong step could see her meet her end. "No, Mr. Lee..." She considers her next words before saying "I wanted it." He chuckles at this, sensing the truth, as she absently darts her eyes across his naked form with not an ounce of shame or revulsion.

"Did the young woman discover her love for the African prick this day?" he chuckles "Look at you, darling! You're full of my boy's cum and you're all ready to mount another one." She snorts back in outrage "I am not!"

To this he chuckles, simply grabbing his cock and stroking. As it fills, her mind aches in need, it's not half as long as his sons, but it's twice as thick. Her insides quiver and moisten on their own and her breath becomes ragged.

"Just take off that shirt and let everything else come natural, child." He offers his hand to her calmly. "We'll find out quickly who's mistaken."