The water ran pink for a second—not blood, just the raw, angry skin shedding its shame—before running clear.
She rinsed the cloth, again and again, scrubbing until her asshole was clean, until the water ran clear, until the only thing left was the ache deep inside her. But fuck if that ache didn't make her whimper.
She let the washcloth drop into the water, her hands shaking as she reached back one last time, her fingers brushing over the tender skin. It was still sensitive, still throbbing, but clean. Too fucking clean.
And then—she glanced up.
Our eyes met in the mirror.
Shame flashed across Emily's face, her cheeks flaming a deep, humiliated crimson as she realized I was watching. Her fingers froze, still pressed against her swollen, abused asshole, her body exposed and vulnerable, her lips parted in silent, shaken gasps.
"M-Mike..." she stammered, her voice barely more than a whisper, her gaze dropping to the floor, unable to meet my eyes.
