The back seat of the car was destroyed.

There was no other word for the state of the upholstery — the combined evidence of the last hour soaked into the fabric in layers, seat covers dark with wet, the floor mat below pooled with what had run off the edge.

Thalia sat in the middle of it.

Completely naked.

Her blouse hung open off both shoulders, the buttons gone from earlier. Her skirt was bunched around her waist still, because removing it had never become relevant. Her stockings were in two separate pieces somewhere in the footwell.

She looked like exactly what she was.

A woman who had been thoroughly, comprehensively used in the back seat of a car and had somewhere between protested and participated and had lost track of the exact moment when one became the other.

She looked down at his cock.

Still half-hard. Glistening. The combined record of the last two hours coating every inch of it in a filthy, detailed report.

She looked at it for exactly three seconds.

Then she leaned down.

Her mouth closed around the base of his balls first.

Both of them. The full, warm weight filling her cheeks as she sucked with slow, deliberate pressure — the specific suction of a woman who had made a decision and was executing it without theatrics.

His hand moved to her breast.

Not gripping. Just resting. His palm cupping the full, swollen underside of her left breast and kneading it in slow, absent circles the way a man handles something familiar, his thumb rolling across her nipple without particular urgency.

She worked upward.

Her tongue dragging the full length of his shaft from base to crown, both hands wrapped loosely around the middle, the slick of him coating her lips immediately.

She took the cockhead between her lips.

Sucked once.

Pulled off with a wet, audible sound.

Sucked again.

His hand moved from her breast to the back of her head.

Not pushing. Just present.

"So." His voice arrived flat and unhurried. "How did you get Sugar?"

Thalia’s lips slid down the shaft.

Halfway.

Pulled back.

"Arvich." Her voice was muffled, lips still near the tip. "The patriarch arranged her for my safety." A pause. She took the crown back into her mouth, hollowed her cheeks, released. "Technically, I brought her here to cut off your cock."

Silence.

Then the chuckle came.

Low. Genuine.

"Are you really going to cut off," he said, "the thing you love?"

She looked up at him over the shaft.

Her green hair was a disaster, half-covering her face, sticky at the ends from what his cock had already done to it today.

Her expression carried a specific, focused fury.

She placed her teeth against the cockhead.

Very lightly.

The edge of her incisors resting against the rim of the crown with deliberate, communicative precision.

"Thalia."

His voice stayed flat.

"That would hurt."

A pause.

"Both of us."

She held the position for two full seconds.

Then her tongue moved.

Pressed flat against the tip, right against the slit, and dragged downward in one slow, apologetic stroke that contradicted every prior implication of the last five seconds.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

Her tongue kept moving — the crown, the ridge, the full underside length — her face pressing forward until her nose met his lower abdomen and his cock was fully seated down her throat, the bulge of it visible from the outside as a slight, obscene swell at the front of her neck.

Her throat worked.

The swallow reflex triggering around his cock in slow, involuntary pulses.

’He fills my throat exactly the way he fills everything else.’ ’There is no part of me left that he has not been inside and I am sucking his cock in a parking lot and my hands are moving on their own and I genuinely cannot find the part of me that objects anymore.’

His hand closed over her head.

Both hands.

Fingers lacing into her green hair from above, cupping the back of her skull, and he began to move her.

Not rough.

Just rhythmic.

Her face up and down his cock in long, steady strokes, the crown clearing her lips on each upstroke and pressing to the back of her throat on each down, his hips staying still while her head did all the work under his guidance.

"Mmph~!!" "Nngh~!!" "Hhk~!!"

"I’ve fucked your stepmother," he said.

Her head kept moving under his hands.

Her eyes came up.

He wasn’t looking at her face. His head was tilted slightly back, eyes at the car ceiling.

"Jenny too." A pause. "Would probably want a threesome at some point. Though given your relationship with her, that would be complicated."

Her glare intensified by approximately four degrees.

She had no mouth available to respond with.

She attempted to convey her position through eye contact alone.

"Mmph~!!" "MMPH~!!"

He pressed her down to the base.

"Hgkk~!! Nngh~!!"

Her throat bulged.

Her eyes watered.

Her nose ran slightly against his lower abdomen with the force of the deep seat.

He held her there for three seconds.

She gagged, her throat contracting around his cock in helpless, repeated pulses that he showed no sign of finding anything other than pleasant.

He let her up.

She pulled off gasping, a thin line of saliva connecting her lower lip to his tip, her green hair completely wrecked, eyes bright and furious.

She inhaled.

He pressed her back down before she could speak.

"Forget that," he said.

Her face buried in his lap again, throat working.

"There’s something I actually need from you."

"Mphh~!!" "Hgkk~!!"

"I need Sugar to fall for me."

Thalia’s muffled objection was immediate and vigorous and completely unintelligible.

"I don’t know yet how I’ll approach it." His thumb rubbed a small, absent circle on the top of her head. "But you need to help me."

He pressed her down one final time.

Fully.

The crown of his cock seating at the very back of her throat, her nose flat against his skin, both his hands holding her head in place.

And he came.

Not a warning.