I hauled her up by the hips, her body a limp, trembling doll in the aftermath, her cunt still fluttering around nothing as I pulled free with a wet, obscene schlorp that echoed in the quiet room like a cork popping from a bottle.
A thick, creamy rope of her slick—pearlescent, glistening, threaded with bubbles from the frantic churning—stretched between us for a heartbeat before snapping with a soft twang, splattering in hot, sticky droplets across her inner thighs and the rug's faded weave. The air reeked of raw cunt, coppery sweat, the sharp tang of my precum mixing with her juices, and the faint mildew of the old Persian fibers beneath.
She whimpered, a broken, needy sound that vibrated in her throat like a plucked string, her chest still heaving, her tits quivering with each ragged inhale.
"Up," I growled, my own voice shredded raw from her screams.
