The room had gone quiet again.
The kind of quiet that settles only after something raw and real has unfolded—when everyone’s breath has softened, when the rhythm of bodies slows, and what’s left is just the pulse of connection.
Jenna was draped across James’s chest, her body spent and glowing. She curled into him instinctively, her arm draped over his chest, her breath still catching now and then in quiet aftershocks. His cock, still thick and heavy, rested between them, glistening with the proof of what they’d shared.
Mark knelt on the floor beside them, hands resting gently on Jenna’s thigh, just above the soft mess still dripping from her. Her skin was flushed, and as he pressed his lips to her hip, he whispered, “You’re perfect.”
There wasn’t a trace of resentment in him. Not anymore. What he felt now was something deeper—something that didn’t need words. Just presence. Just touch.
He dipped his head and began to clean her with slow, reverent strokes of his tongue, careful and patient. She was stretched, tender, open in a way that made his heart ache and swell all at once. He could feel how much James had filled her, how much more she’d taken than he ever could give—and instead of jealousy, what bloomed in him was awe.…
This story reminds me of my college lit. class professor discussing ‘Juliet of the spirits’. A play about a lady who learns about herself through visions, memories, and mysticism, but I wonder how much of this goes on in the real world.