"Where are you?!"
The voice was loud. The yell, carrying through the house, was the voice of a man who had woken up and found his bed empty for the second time. The headache, reduced but present, throbbed with the volume.
She arrived. From above — from the garden, from the grass where she had been lying, from the spot where she had been fucked and bred and broken — she came. Her dress, straightened, was presentable.
Her hair, smoothed, was tidy. Her face, cleaned, was composed.
The tears, the sweat, the cum — all of it, washed away with water from the garden pond. The only evidence — the slight, red marks on her wrists from the belt, hidden beneath her sleeves; the slight, swollen puffiness of her lips; the slight, slow leak of divine cum from her pussy, absorbed by the spare panty she had put on — was hidden.
She appeared at the top of the stairs. Composed. Beautiful. The wife of a Favored Son of Heaven.
