Transit, Day 5, 78 part 1 (Patreon)

Lorie woke with one arm above her head and the taste of stale lipstick, smoke, and cock coating her tongue. For several seconds she did not open her eyes. She lay there on the gray cushions, breathing through a throat scraped raw by the night, feeling the deep, satisfied ache between her thighs and the heavier soreness behind it.

When she shifted, dried cum tightened across her breasts and stomach. The crusted streaks cracked under the movement, pulling at her skin beneath one enormous implant. Mascara had hardened beneath her eyes. Her red lipstick smeared beyond the swollen outline of her mouth and printed across the cushion where she had slept.

A pink dildo lay within reach. One red boot had disappeared somewhere near the bed; the other clung halfway up her calf. Her bracelets were stacked at her wrist, cold and expensive against skin that smelled of sweat, perfume, and sex.

“Fuck,” she murmured, voice hoarse. “That was a shift.”

She opened her eyes and looked down.

Red roses curved across her lower stomach, dark petals and black vines framing her pierced pussy like permanent lingerie. The sight did not frighten her. A memory rose immediately: a private studio in West Hollywood, Johnny laughing while the artist sketched the design lower and lower, Lorie insisting the roses had to point attention toward the best part of her.

She smiled. Of course she remembered.

At the window, Moscow daylight showed her everything more clearly: platinum hair tangled over one shoulder, makeup wrecked, tits streaked with dried cum, hips swollen from the night. Near her ankle sat a small black cross beneath a chain.

Another memory arrived Vegas, maybe Los Angeles, some rich client calling her his filthy little angel. She had gotten the cross the next afternoon because the joke was too perfect to waste.

For one second, another woman’s thought surfaced: None of those tattoos were there yesterday.

Lorie rolled her eyes at her reflection.

“Bitch, they’ve always been there.”

She stretched, watched the roses move with her hips, and grinned. She looked used, expensive, and exactly like herself.