The drive home

She dressed slowly.

Her panties were gone—given—and she didn’t bother trying to cover the mess he’d left inside her. She stepped into her skirt, pulling it up her hips over sticky thighs, the hem brushing the bare swell of her ass. Her white blouse clung to her damp skin as she fastened it, nipples stiff under the fabric, each brush a reminder of her unrelieved sensitivity.

She looked down at herself.

Her black lace garter belt still hugged her waist, the straps pulling taut against her ruined stockings. Runs laddered through the sheer fabric, unmistakable stains, knees scuffed, elastic bitten into flesh from the way she’d ridden him. Her heels clicked softly on the wood as she made her way to the door.

Down the apartment stairs.

Step by step.

Thighs pressed tight.

She moved slowly, carefully, trying to contain it—but her body betrayed her.

By the second landing, a hot trickle slipped free—thick and unmistakable, Eli’s cum sliding from her swollen folds, down the curve of her inner thigh in a lazy, humiliating drip.

She gasped—just under her breath—and stopped, hand gripping the railing, eyes fluttering shut.

Her pussy ached.

Raw, open, wet, satisfied in a way her body hadn’t felt in over a year. Her folds still sticky, her cunt still warm and sloppy, pulsing faintly with aftershocks. She squeezed her thighs together and pressed forward, heart pounding.

She got to the car, breath shallow, face flushed, no underwear, no bra—just the rough scrape of cotton over her nipples, already sore from the morning feed, now so over-sensitive it hurt.

The seat was cool against her bare thighs.

She exhaled as she turned the key, trying not to squirm. But the vibration of the engine buzzed straight up her cunt, and she nearly groaned.

The drive was brutal.

Every pothole shook her—sent her breasts jiggling painfully under her shirt, every bump sending ripples of pleasure and soreness through her overstimulated core.

At every red light, she gripped the steering wheel tighter, thighs clenching, eyes unfocused.

She could still feel him inside her.

The heat, the stretch, the slow fullness when she’d bottomed out on him again and again, the filthy pressure of his cum still leaking down her thighs, soaking into the car seat beneath her.

And her mind—her mind was chaos.

Jason.

Her husband.

Still at work, probably. He hadn’t come home before she left that morning. One of his usual all-nighters. Again. Lately it was every week. Maybe more. Debugging marathons, empty coffee cups, glowing monitors in rooms she wasn’t invited into.

He wouldn’t even know she hadn’t gone to work today.

Wouldn’t ask.

He hadn’t touched her in weeks.

Not kissed her. Not grabbed her waist in passing. Not run his fingers down her back or cupped her ass in the kitchen. He barely looked at her when he did come home—and even that was becoming rare.

Would he kiss her when he got in tonight?

Would he notice anything?

Would he taste it?

If he even showed up at all.

Chloe.

Her baby.

Her breasts ached now—heavy, swollen. The blouse was rubbing the worst of it, the fabric rough over her sensitive, milk-hardened nipples. Her body was already thinking of feeding again, and she was still wet with someone else’s cum.

And Eli.

That boy.

That sweet, wide-eyed, gorgeous disaster she’d just mounted and milked until he came inside her twice. The video. The panties. His name in her phone.

Options.

The light turned green and she almost didn’t move.

Her heart pounded. Her pussy clenched. Her fingers dug into the wheel, and she let out a slow, shaking breath.

What the fuck had she just done?

What the fuck was she going to do next?