It was done. She had to get out of here.
During the trudge back down the car is when the shame really started to sink in. Had she actually enjoyed that? She had cum, but she hadn’t tried to. Or at least, she meant to do it solo. The event may have been unwanted, but she sure had liked it, sort of. Maybe she just liked being submissive, as embarrassing as that may be to admit. But wait, a gargoyle coming to life? Wasn’t that a little far-fetched? Had it even happened to begin with?
The shame shifted to guilt. Guilt that she had enjoyed it, or had least her body had, physically. Mentally, it hadn’t really finished sinking in. And then, as she believed it less and less, guilt that she would’ve concocted such a depraved sexual fantasy to arouse herself. And finally, almost laughably given everything else that had happened, guilt that she had desecrated—whether it was with rape or consensual sex or even masturbating with an overactive imagination—a potentially fragile historical site.
What’s more, she hadn’t taken a single picture. What was she going to tell her friends she did, get raped by a statue? She didn’t expect that to go over well. Obviously, they wouldn’t believe her (she wasn’t sure she even believed herself), but they would certainly be concerned, thinking maybe a human attacker had lain in wait. What would happen next?
But then it hit her. They would believe her after all. Or at least, Lizzie would.
Lizzie, who also lost her virginity at the chapel. Lizzie, who recommended Adriana visit during the eclipse specifically. Lizzie, with whom she suddenly had a lot more in common than she expected.
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