I didn’t leave that night.
I stayed on the coffee table until my legs stopped shaking enough to move. Someone eventually tossed me a towel. It was already damp. I cleaned what I could, but the rest of them just watched, still half-hard, like they were deciding whether they were done with me or not.
They weren’t.
The dark-haired one—the one who’d invited me—pulled me into his lap on the couch while the others ordered food. His fingers stayed inside me the whole time, slow and lazy, stirring the mess they’d left. Every time I twitched he smiled against my neck and added another finger.
“You’re staying the weekend,” he said. Not a question.
I nodded.
By the time the food arrived I was already dripping down his wrist again.
They fed me in between using me. One of them held a slice of pi
