His hips moved forward.
Slow. Deliberate. The full grinding press of it.
Her throat.
The visible bulge traveling under the skin of her neck — the shape of him moving through her, the outside of her throat deforming with the inside pressure of his cockhead pressing deep, the way the skin stretched thin and then recovered as he withdrew.
The sound she made around it.
Not a moan. Something below a moan — the wet, guttural, involuntary sound of a throat being used at its absolute capacity, the sound produced not by choice but by physics. The thick, liquid sound of an airway working around an obstruction while the body managed the contradiction of breathing and being filled at the same time.
'Glkk—'
'Glkk—'
'Glkkkh—'
The sounds were obscene in the silent room. The wet, clinical sound of something biological being conducted at close quarters.
Her legs were flaying.
