He stepped in.
Not thrown. His own entry — measured, the water rising to his thighs, his waist, the cold landing on him with the same shock it had landed on her with and receiving from him the reaction of a man who had decided it was fine.
He reached her.
She was chest-deep, trying to push backward.
He caught her.
The dress coming away — he pulled it, the soaked fabric dragging off her arms and floating free, leaving her bare in the water, the nipple hooks still attached, the clit hook still attached, the gold of them catching even the filtered forest light.
He turned her.
The pond. The cold water. The absolute, ridiculous, completely genuine outdoor-midday-forest-pond setting.
His cock finding her pussy underwater — the resistance of the water changing everything, slowing the entry, adding weight, the cold of her walls warmer than the water around them, the contrast immediate.
She felt him enter.
