The sentence was completely without cruelty. It was just a logistic. A directive delivered by a woman who has weighed the situation and communicated the clearest available path.
Marga looked at the cock.
At its size — the specific, impossible, how-is-this-real size of it, ten inches minimum and thick as her wrist and pre-cum already bead at the head from Veronica's stroking.
At Veronica's face.
At Alexander, breathing in shallow pulls on the marble, watching through the slits of eyes that were losing their focus but hadn't quite gone yet.
"'He's watching,'" Marga said.
"'Yes.'"
"'He'll see.'"
"'That,'" Veronica said, "'is the point.'"
Marga's hand went to the tie of her bikini bottom.
She turned. Hands on the pool railing. Facing the water. The bikini bottom fell and she stepped out of it, her feet bare on the warm tile. Her hips shifted slightly, instinctively, the way a body prepares itself.
Raven came up behind her.
