March 17th, 20xx, 01:48 am.
—
I stood there, panting, the last pulse of release still fading through my thighs.
Qinglan was kneeling at my feet.
Her face—fucked
Her lips glistened, slightly parted. My cum streaked across her chin, her cheek, her nose, even a drip hanging from the edge of her jaw. Spit and seed clung to her lashes and hair, and her tongue peeked from the corner of her mouth as she slowly caught her breath.
I was still hard.
Somehow.
Still twitching, sensitive, hanging just inches from her face.
Qinglan looked up at me with glassy eyes, her breathing still shallow and rapid. Then, her fingers reached out, closing softly around my sensitive tip.
She stroked me once.
Twice.
Her thumb brushed the slimy tip.
"You're exhausted," she said quietly. "We don't have to rush this, John."
Her voice was soft, hoarse, coated in everything she'd just swallowed.
