The drive back to her house was a blur of shivering anticipation and a dull, pulsing ache that refused to subside. Every time she shifted on the sofa or walked across the polished tiles of the living room, she felt the thick, drying residue of Banshi’s seed clinging to her inner thighs, acting like a sticky glue that reminded her of her own degradation. She spent the afternoon in a fugue state, her mind looping back to the rhythmic slapping of his pelvis against her ass and the way he had torn her panties like they were nothing more than scrap paper. The house was eerily quiet in her father's absence, but the silence only amplified the throb in her core. She didn't bother with a proper bath; she wanted the scent of him to linger on her skin for as long as possible, a secret, pungent brand that she wore beneath her clothes.