Morning sunlight filtered softly through the dorm curtains, illuminating a battlefield that smelled heavily of raw sex, sweat, and dried cum. Any respectable priest from the Church would have instantly stroked out just from the sheer degeneracy of the scene.
Clothes—and ripped shreds of lingerie—were scattered everywhere.
A chair had somehow been snapped clean in half.
One side of the heavy oak bedframe was visibly cracked from the violent, rhythmic abuse it took for hours on end.
And in the center of the disaster area, Arthur lay completely buried beneath a pile of naked, exhausted women.
"…I can't feel my fucking arm."
"You don't need it to fuck us," Alicia murmured sleepily against his chest.
Arthur glanced downward.
