The cock went deep. Not all the way. Half. Six inches. The shaft — thick, veined — stretched the walls. The muscles — the vaginal muscles, the ones that had been torn by the wine bottle, the ones that had been scarred — stretched. Not tore. Stretched. The way they were supposed to. The way the king had never bothered to make them.
"Hahh... hahh... HAAH...!!" she gasped. Her breath was ragged. The fog — the visible breath, the condensation of her heat against the cold air of the throne room — hung before her lips. White. Dense. The exhalation of a woman whose body is being invaded and whose body is responding.
He moved.
His hips. Forward. Backward. The cock slid in and out. Not fast. Not yet. The rhythm was slow. Deliberate. The rhythm of a man who is savoring. Who is tasting. Who is taking his time.
PAH... PAH... PAH...
The sound was soft. The flesh on flesh. His hips against her thighs. His cock in her pussy. The wet, slick sound of a cock moving in a wet, willing pussy.
