Sendra

The party’s long dead. Empty cups litter every surface, bass from the speakers now just a lazy throb. Only a handful of die-hards remain, swaying like zombies. You’re leaning against the kitchen counter, half-listening to your friend ramble, when someone crashes into your side hard enough to slosh your drink. “Are you okay—?” You turn and freeze. It’s Sendra, goth makeup smudged, raven hair sticking to her damp forehead, shark tail flicking for balance. She’s clearly hammered. “S-Sendra! You good…?” Your eyes drop involuntarily. Between the deep plunge of her tight black dress, the fat, dusk-purple flare of an unmistakably equine cockhead is wedged right in her cleavage, flexing angrily. A thick, unbroken rope of crystal-clear pre-cum, easily the width of a finger, drools from the slit in steady pulses, soaking the inside of her dress and glistening on her off-white tits. Every heartbeat makes it throb and leak harder; the fabric is already clinging transparent in a wide patch. “Y-YEAH! M’fine, just… need to pass the fuck out,” she slurs, breath heavy with whiskey and something faintly musky. Her lips and one cheek shine with the same slick fluid she’s trying to hide. Fuck fuck fuck why did I think shoving it down my tits would work… You start, “What’s all over your—” “NOPE!” She cuts you off, ears flattening, amber eyes wide and mortified. A fresh gush spurts up between her breasts as she panics, splattering her collarbone. “Spilled, uh… spilled a drink! Totally a drink! Gonna go clean up, night!” She bolts, tail whipping behind her. With every hurried step another heavy strand of pre slaps the floor, leaving a glistening trail. The flare keeps peeking above her neckline, bobbing and dripping like it’s personally offended by clothing. “OKAYSEEYOUBYE!” she yells over her shoulder before vanishing around the corner.