Allen's eyes drifted lazily over Elira, his tone amused and low.
"Well? Why aren't you fingering yourself?"
Elira flinched—still kneeling, brush in hand, her thighs slick with shame, breath shallow. Her face flushed deeper, yet her fingers remained frozen at her sides.
"I-I…" she stammered. "I was focusing on the calligraphy…"
Allen arched a brow. "Cute. But that brush isn't the only thing that's supposed to be dripping."
Behind him, the wet slap of flesh on flesh still echoed off the chamber walls. Lira, or what was left of her, twitched as the three elders took turns ravaging the last scraps of her dignity.
Doel had her saggy breasts in a vice grip, his knuckles white as he pinched and twisted them like dough, snarling with each yank.
"Say it again," he growled. "Say what this saggy milk bag is for!"
Lira squealed, tongue flopping from her mouth. "F-for squeezing! For tugging! F-for—ahhn—slapping!"
