He positioned himself behind Cleora. "My fierce, proud mother," he whispered, guiding his cock to her entrance. He pushed in with the same tender, inexorable slowness as before, sheathing himself fully inside her warmth. He set a steady, deep rhythm, his hands gripping her hips not to punish, but to anchor them both. After a dozen such soul-stirring thrusts, he withdrew, his cock slipping from her with a wet sound.
Back and forth he moved, a conductor of pleasure. Five deep, languid strokes in Cleora, whose head was bowed, soft whimpers of "more, my love, more…" falling from her lips. Then five in Raayani, who chanted his name like a prayer, her arrogance dissolved into worship. He varied the rhythm, sometimes giving Cleora three quick, shallow thrusts that made her gasp before settling back into the deep ones, sometimes lingering in Raayani, grinding against her cervix until she mewled with overwhelmed pleasure.
