Eleven. Twelve. Balls deep.
His hips pressed against her ass. His cock, twelve inches, was fully inside. The head, the thick crimson crown, was against her cervix. The organ, the barrier to her womb, was pressed. Not broken. Compressed. The 'I-am-at-the-door-of-your-womb' pressure.
He lay on her. His chest, broad and warm, pressed against her breasts. The milk, the residual fluid, was squeezed between their bodies. His face found hers. His lips, close, brushed her cheek.
"You are evil," she whispered. The words, the 'you-took-my-virginity-in-a-stable' accusation, were delivered through tears. "You are evil. You are a devil. You are a monster."
He kissed her. The contact was gentle. Not the claiming, devouring kiss of before. Soft. The 'I-know' kiss that was both apology and acknowledgment.
"Am I really evil?" he whispered against her lips. The question was quiet. The 'think-about-it' tone that required her to engage. "Does evil come from divine light?"
