He pulled out.
Not gradually. Not with care. A single, clean withdrawal — the full length of his cock dragging back through Gwen's split, weeping walls in one slow, deliberate reverse stroke — and the sound it made was wet and obscene and complete.
Gwen's entire body convulsed.
Not from pleasure. From the absence of the pressure. Her pussy, stretched and torn and bleeding and 'already trying to close around something that wasn't there anymore', clenched on nothing, and the sensation of that empty clench drew a broken, muffled wail out of her that Rihana's breast barely contained.
Viktor looked at his cock.
Dark-flushed. Glistening. Streaked with the thin, bright evidence of what Gwen used to be — red threading through the slick of her arousal, coating the ridges of the shaft in slow, dark rivers.
He looked at Gwen's face.
Still buried in Rihana's chest. Still crying. Her pointed ears pressed flat against her skull, her slim shoulders shaking.
"Gwen."
She didn't move.
