Lira's knees squished as they touched the soaked stone, her palms slapping into the slippery mix of her own crusty juices. She whimpered, shaking, her head bowed so low her sagging tits nearly brushed the floor.
Behind her, Veyna gave one final slap to her ass—a sharp crack that echoed—and hissed, "Crawl, you rancid bitch."
And Lira did.
She dragged herself forward, slow and pathetic, knees sliding through the warm trail of her own shame. Her tail dragged low behind her, matted and dripping. Her elbows quivered, tits swinging like water-logged sacks beneath her, brushing through the filth she'd leaked.
Each inch she moved made a wet sound.
Each breath came as a mix of drool, moans, and utter disgrace.
Allen didn't watch her.
He turned—deliberate, calm—and reached out to the woman kneeling loyally at his side.
Lady Rhelgar.
Her dark auburn hair framed her flushed face, her makeup long ruined, a single red kiss mark glowing against her throat like a brand of ownership.
