The midday sun filters through gossamer curtains, painting stripes across your swollen thighs as you shift gingerly on the mattress—every slight movement sending dull throbs from your overstimulated cunt. Neel's abandoned belt still loops the bedpost where he'd pinned your wrists yesterday, its leather creaking faintly when a breeze stirs the air heavy with musk and dried sweat. Downstairs, the clatter of pans suggests breakfast preparations underway—each metallic clang syncing with the pulse between your legs that refuses to fade despite the raw tenderness. Your fingers hover above your puffy labia, trembling at the memory of last night's forced ecstasy before curling into fists against the sheets, the ghost sensation of his unrelenting grip on your hips still imprinted on your skin like a brand.