His other hand found her hair.
Not gentle.
A fistful of it at the back of her head — pulling, the angle forcing her head back further, her throat exposed, her chest lifted, the porridge-covered bra pulling with gravity as her back arched.
He pushed the second finger in.
PAH!
"AAANGHH~!!"
She was wailing.
Full-throated, helpless, the sound of a woman whose body has completely left the building and is now operating on pure physiological response. Her hips rolling against his hand — the involuntary, desperate, seeking motion of flesh trying to get more of the thing that had just arrived in it — her thighs attempting to close and finding his forearm between them and settling instead for pressing against it.
PAH! PAH!
"HNGH~!! P-PLEASE~!! AAAHH~!!"
His fingers.
Curled.
The specific, interior pressure — the finding-the-place pressure, the two-knuckle press against the front wall of her that made the wailing change register into something shorter and higher and more specific.
