"Ah… ahh… ahhh…"
Her moans turned into cries of pleasure, echoing off the walls with each movement. His hands and mouth worked in perfect sync, as if guided by the same rhythm. The tension in her body climbed higher with every second. Even after he let go of her breasts, her head stayed tilted back, lost in sensation. One hand moved to gently trace the edge of her lips, his thumb brushing over them, while the other slipped down between her thighs. He lifted his head, adjusting his posture quickly, his presence looming above her like a force of nature.
He slid his index finger gently into her mouth, not forcefully but with an unspoken invitation. She took him in, her lips closing around it. At the same time, the fingers of his other hand slipped between her legs—slow at first, then deeper, more deliberate. Her breath caught, back arching again as the pressure built. Their bodies moved in rhythm, not rushed but intense—every motion filled with heat, every touch matched with a reaction. It wasn't just physical—it was like their bodies spoke in a language of their own.
"F—fuck…"
The F word slipped from her lips, ragged and raw, as if something deep within her had finally been unleashed. Her voice trembled, thick with sensation, like she'd crossed a line she didn't know existed. The curtains stirred violently in the breeze, echoing the storm rising in her body. His fingers moved with purpose, firm but precise, and when he finally withdrew his hand from between her thighs, a rush of warmth followed—her body's response, unfiltered and overwhelming. Her breath hitched as the sweet-scented fluid that got released washed over her, a wave she couldn't hold back.
"Fuck… you…"
Her voice cracked between gasps, laced with a wild mix of joy and disbelief. Her legs trembled beneath her, muscles twitching uncontrollably, like the aftermath of something seismic. It was more than just pleasure—it felt like a prison break, a surrender. For a minute, everything around them appeared to fade as though the world itself stopped to gather its breath.
The cushion underneath her darkened, the delicate, white fabric soaked through with traces of her fluid. It adhered to her flesh, warm and moist, a silent tribute to what had just happened. She lay there, catching shallow breaths, her body spent but her mind still reaching—yearning for something more, something that existed beyond the edge of what she'd known. Then, without warning, he moved. In a swift, instinctive motion, she was pulled forward, her body folding slightly as if bracing for impact. It wasn't violent, but it was sudden—like a reflex, like drawing a weapon out of urgency. Her legs trembled under the strain, still not fully recovered from what had just surged through her, but she didn't resist. She didn't want to.
Every part of her remained open—receptive. Whatever was coming next, she wasn't backing away. She leaned into it, not just with her body, but with something deeper. A part of her had been stirred awake, and it wasn't ready to sleep again. The air in the room seemed to even pause for her to think, but her entire being was down, like a robot in a reboot mode. She could feel her heart pounding fast in her but had no other way of making it slow down. Her mind turned to the zero mode. She had turned into what she wasn't supposed to turn into.
She lay back, still breathing hard, her skin damp with the evidence of what had just happened. Her gaze shifted toward him—sharp, deliberate. It wasn't just a look; it was a signal. Something in her expression changed, as if she had crossed a line and now stood in full control—inviting, but powerful. Her lips parted slightly, slick with anticipation, the corner of her mouth rising in a knowing grin that promised more.
But the sound that came next wasn't from her mouth. From below, a low, pulsing groan escaped her—raw and real, her body still aching with need. The contrast between her composed face and the primal response from deep within her made the moment electric. He paused, then ran his tongue slowly across his lips, savoring the taste still fresh on him. It wasn't performative—it was instinctive, like finishing the last bite of something that had left him starving. He lowered his head again, nestling between her thighs, his face framed by her trembling legs. She didn't flinch. She welcomed him back like gravity itself had drawn him there.
"Beg me… if you really want it that bad."
His voice cut through the stillness, low and sharp, right against her ear. His breath was warm, sending a shiver across her skin as he bent in close. The words didn't just land—they struck, like a jolt of electricity straight through her chest. Her eyes snapped upward. This wasn't a look of joy—it was something heavier, conflicted. A mixture of resistance and need, anger and desire. She wanted to speak, to respond, but the words never made it past her lips.
Before she could react, his fingers were already there—pressed firmly against her mouth. Quick. Deliberate. Almost too fast to follow. It felt like instinct, like he knew exactly how to silence her before the thought even finished forming in her head. Her breath hitched behind his hand, but she didn't pull away. Not yet. The room stayed quiet, thick with tension, every sound and breath sharpened. Whatever was about to happen next, it hung in the air—waiting.
She tried to form words, to beg like he asked, but his fingers made it nearly impossible.
Every time she opened her mouth, they moved—pressing, circling—turning her voice into choked sounds trapped in her throat. The plea was there, building, but muffled by sensation. Her body arched slightly under the pressure. Then, with a sudden burst of clarity, she reached for his arm—gripping it tightly. She lifted it, guiding his hand to her god-gracing melons, pressing it against her with purpose. Her breathing was uneven, but her eyes locked onto his, sharp and unwavering.