He pulled out.
Jennifer's body dropped. The full, limp forward fall of a woman whose legs had stopped contributing — her knees folding, her torso collapsing against the bed, the thick weight of her landing with a soft, final impact, her bound legs spread, her cunt exposed and wet and painted with the accumulated evidence of the evening, fluttering around nothing.
He grabbed Yuna's hair.
The hand going from her back to the roots at the crown — the pull that tilted her head back and her eyes upward — and he 'walked' her forward, his grip directing her body toward the bed with the same efficiency he directed everything.
She went.
Her knees hit the mattress.
Her face came level with Jennifer's spread legs.
"Look," he said.
She looked.
