The thrust hit her completely unprepared — her walls still hypersensitive from everything preceding, still swollen and tender, the clit piercing dragging against the base of his shaft as he buried himself to the hilt and immediately, without pause, began to move.
PAH.
The impact sent her whole body lurching, and the lurch sent milk spraying fresh from both nipples in stuttered, rhythmic pulses that matched his thrusting — each collision of his hips against hers forcing a fresh spray from her overfull breasts, the white liquid soaking the cave grass beneath her, running in streams across her belly, dripping from the swaying chains.
PAH. PAH. PAH.
"AHH—AHH—please—it's—the milk—I can feel it—every time you—'AHH'—"
"I know," he said. He 'did' know — he could feel it, the internal pressure of her milk-swollen breasts changing the tension on the chains with each bounce, each impact, each arching sob.
PAH. PAH. PAH—
He stopped.
Not from mercy. From intention.
