And he did. Pulling back, my interior flesh clung to his hard shaft as if entreating to never leave. His hands gripped my hips, thumbs rubbing weals, his coarse hairs slamming into my upper thighs; the sensation of him sliding in and out was exquisite. Loud slaps grew wetter, the sound reminded me of doing laundry: his rapid pounding a smith hammering molten iron on an anvil. Our groans intermingled as our bodies were entwined as one. I had no comparison at the time, but even then, when he of a sudden ceased moving, stiffened, and moaned, I wanted more.
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