He climbed further.
His knees reaching her shoulders. The cock descending toward her face.
She pressed her lips together.
"'No.'" Clear. Flat. The most clear and flat she'd sounded in hours. "'That is — you are not — I am not opening my mouth for—'"
His fingers found her nose.
She lasted six seconds this time before her mouth opened for air.
He entered.
Slowly.
The cockhead pressing past her lips, settling on her tongue, and she tasted everything it had gathered tonight — herself, all of herself, every location it had visited — and the sound she made around it was broken and muffled and completely past pride.
"'Mmmpphh~... Nnghff~...'"
He rubbed the head against her teeth.
She felt the ridge of it drag across the back edge of her teeth — the graze of enamel against warm, taut flesh — and her tongue, moving automatically, found the slit at the tip and tasted the seed there and ran across it.
He exhaled.
"'How does it taste.'"
She pulled off enough to speak.
