'Am I a whore?' The thought again. Her own thought. And beneath it, below the outrage and the shock and the fifty years of warrior dignity, something that was not outrage. Something that was the opposite of outrage and that she had absolutely no name for and was not going to name right now while his foot was on her face.
His cock pressed against her entrance from above.
The angle delivered by her raised hips — the full top-down view of her cunt and, above it, the spread of her ass, the tight ring of her anal visible and wet from the juices that had been running all evening, the moonlight catching everything.
He looked at her anal.
She felt his gaze.
She felt his gaze the way you feel a flame — not touching, but present, the awareness of being seen in a configuration that a woman does not expect to be seen in conducting directly to every nerve ending in the area being observed.
Her anal twitched.
