Dara's eyes found the length of it.
The full, vein-mapped, thick-headed, honestly-proportioned reality of a cock lying against the ass crack of a woman who was unconscious and blue-shouldered and breathing shallowly.
Her panty had been pulled slightly to the side, the white fabric folded at the hip, exposing the darker, warmer, soft-creased territory of her anal.
Higher up, her thin linen blouse strained against her chest with every shallow rise of her breath, the fabric damp with sweat, outlining the stark, dark circles of her rigid nipples against the pale cloth.
The cockhead — already pressing.
One inch.
The very tip of it engaged with the muscle.
Inside the dark, locked cage of her mind, a sudden, blinding spark of agony flared. 'It bit.' A sharp, tearing heat where nothing should be. Her consciousness thrashed against the dead weight of the paralysis. 'Husband... Where is husband?'
