Seraphine. The tank. She had followed — probably to relieve herself, probably to check on us, probably for some mundane reason that had just collided spectacularly with the reality of what I was doing to the one-legged woman against the tree.
I did not stop.
I pulled Lira's dress lower. Exposed her completely — her breasts, her belly, her pussy, the stump of her missing leg. I unfastened my towel. Let it fall. My cock — heavy, thick, hard — hung between us, the head crimson, the shaft veined.
Seraphine's internal voice went silent. Then screamed:
'THAT — THAT THING — HE IS — IT IS — THE SAME — I SAW IT BEFORE — WHEN HIS TOWEL — IT IS—'
I positioned my cock against Lira's pussy. The head pressed against the entrance — wet, swollen, yielding. I looked at Lira.
"Can I fuck you?" I said, and the question was loud enough for Seraphine to hear — deliberate, performative, the question of a considerate lover rather than a predator.
Lira's eyes filled. "Yes," she whispered. "Please."
