Jonathan Everest - The tortured tourists

She left the room, and moved down the hallway again. Maybe a shower would help her. A cool shower.

As she started to pass Darla's room, she saw that the door was slightly ajar, and looked inside.

A glass of water on the nightstand was half-consumed, and the tiny envelope beside it showed that a sleeping pill had been taken. A scent filled her nostrils, and Ann moved to the bedside.

Darla's nude form was spread eagled in sleep, and the opened thighs disclosed the wetness of her pinkly swollen slit. A string of the white, sticky semen that had been spurted into her was trailed over one of the blonde curls at the edge of her canyon.

Ann leaned over and inhaled the heady odor. Her tongue lashed out at the solitary telltale string, and gathered it up. Then she turned and went out of the room.

In the doorway, she paused before closing the door, and looked at the girl's sleeping form.

I can't tell whose it is. Either of them could have been in there with her. Either of my lovers. That's the horrible part. Or is it? No. The real horror of it is that I'd feel the same way in either case.

She closed the door, and went slowly down the hall to the bathroom. A really cold shower might be best, after all.