Priya let her eyes flutter closed, the hum of the Rolls Royce’s engine vibrating through her bones like a lullaby for the damned. The leather beneath her thighs was impossibly soft, a deliberate luxury that only heightened the raw, used ache between her legs. That ache wasn't pain anymore. It was a song. A low, thrumming reminder of every inch of her body that had been claimed, stretched, filled, and utterly worshipped. She pressed her knees together just slightly, feeling the sticky fabric of the salwar cling and release, cling and release, a wet kiss of cotton against her swollen, freshly finger fucked cunt. The sensation made her stomach flip, a warm, liquid pulse that crept up her spine and settled behind her eyes. She was leaking. Leaking her own endless juices that trickled down the inside of her thigh in a slow, deliberate line, like a secret message only her skin could read.