He muffled her. His hand, large and pale, found her mouth. His palm, the divine qi, the warm skin, pressed against her lips. The words, the confession, the truth, were silenced. The sound, the muffled cry, was wet. Guttaural.
Her hands, her slender fingers, moved. Reaching for his hand, trying to pull his palm from her mouth. He grabbed. His other hand, large and pale, caught both her wrists. Her hands, pinned above her head, were held. One hand. His grip, the divine strength, was absolute.
He pulled. Her dress, the remnants, the torn silk, the remaining fabric, was pulled. Down. Her hips, her thighs, her legs. The fabric, the silk, slid. The dark pubic hair, the hairy mound, the tight virgin slit, was exposed. Her legs, slender, bare, were free.
