Free of everything, hanging forward with their full, heavy weight in the tilted position she was held at — swaying, jiggling, bouncing with each impact, the nipples stiff and dark, the undersides flushed a deep, heated pink. Each thrust sent them lurching forward and back, the momentum of the full, soft weight of them not catching up with the impact until half a beat after, the fat undersides slapping lightly against her own ribs when they swung.
The blood.
Her menstruation cycle. It ran down the inside of her inner thigh in a thin, dark stream, mixing with the continuous, copious slick of her own arousal — the two fluids indistinguishable from each other at this point, both of them coating the thick, long, repeatedly-disappearing-and-reappearing cock driving into her from behind.
The cock.
