The next morning, Rex returned to the room where he had left the wreckage of Valentina.
He was absolutely feral and satisfied, completely naked, his skin still tacky and glistening with the leftover traces of Elizabeth, the girl he had just thoroughly fucked until she had convulsed and passed out.
The evidence of what he had done to the daughter was plastered on his thighs and lower stomach: Elizabeth's sweat, her pussy wetness, and the occasional streak of her blood.
He pushed the door open wide, not bothering with any politeness, relishing the foul and beautiful sight of the woman he had broken the day before.
Valentina looked like the living definition of exhaustion, the kind of bone-deep, soul-crushing depletion that comes from being electrotelekinetically tortured and humiliated until the body nearly shuts down.
