They complied instantly, each woman folding into her appointed role with the trembling discipline of acolytes before a mystery too vast for comprehension.
Sophia pressed her lips into a bloodless line, her analytical gaze no longer merely observant but devouring—tracking the metronome precision of my hands buried in Celeste's slick cunt and Anastasia's fluttering flesh.
Her sharp intellect mapped the geometry of possession: the curl of my fingers, the rotation of my wrist, the exact pressure points that made each woman's spine bow. She observed like a scholar dissecting scripture, even as her own thighs clenched beneath the velvet, betraying the academic detachment she coveted.
Her breath came in controlled, shallow draws, but the flush creeping up her neck bespoke the fever beneath.
