The panty fell from her mouth.
She hadn't removed it — it had simply slipped, the improvised knot losing its argument with gravity — and the first thing her unplugged mouth did was produce a string of saliva that caught the moonlight on the way down.
She looked at it.
Then at her hands, still half-bound by the slack bra-rope.
Then at the trees where those boys had been standing.
"What is 'wrong' with you."
The words came out wet and uneven, the voice of a woman whose throat had been through things today that her morning self would not have believed possible.
She twisted to look at him over her shoulder.
Her eyes — red at the rims, lashes clumped, the specific visual damage of a woman who has been crying and coming and cannot cleanly separate the two — found his face in the dark.
"You 'teleported' me." Her voice cracked on the word. "You just — I was in my bakery — and then I was 'here' — and you—"
She stopped.
Her inner thighs were running with his seed.
