Mike didn't rush to clean her up. He didn't even move to cover himself. Instead, he sat back on his haunches, watching her with the satisfied gaze of a predator who had just finished a feast.
He let the silence of the bathroom settle, broken only by the heavy, rhythmic dripping of semen from her chin onto her chest and the ragged, wet sound of her struggling to find her breath.
Sabrina remained utterly motionless. She was slumped slightly forward, her eyes fixed on a random point on the floor tiles, staring with a hollow, vacant intensity.
To anyone else, she might have looked like a corpse, a beautiful, pale statue draped in the white, viscous remains of Mike's climax. Her muscles were so spent, her nervous system so overloaded by the sheer violence of the sensation, that she had simply shut down.
She was a shell, a vessel that had been filled to the brim and left to sit.
"Hhh... hhh... hhh..." The only sign of life was the tiny, repetitive hitch in her chest.
