Viktor sighed.
The long, deep, put-upon sigh of a man who was being serviced against his will and had decided to endure it with grace.
He relaxed his bladder.
The piss came — warm, yellow, the morning stream that had been building all night. It flowed from his cock, over Dara's stroking hand, running down her fingers, dripping onto the tile. She didn't flinch. She didn't pull back. She kept sucking his balls, her tongue working the skin, her hand still stroking, the piss running over her knuckles and pooling on the floor.
His cock hardened.
The stream tapered off. The last drops fell from the head, landing on Dara's wrist.
She looked up at him.
Then she licked his cock.
From base to tip — a long, slow, cleaning lick, her tongue flat, dragging along the shaft, tasting the salt of his urine and the musk of the night. She licked again, and again, cleaning him with the devoted, thorough, animal attention of a woman who had decided that this was her purpose.
