She sat on him naked, the way females usually were positioned in such moments. There was nothing particularly spectacular about her breasts, nor the way they moved as she lowered herself and impaled herself on his lower member. Her body reacted the way bodies were meant to, her muscles tightening and loosening in practiced rhythm.
She groaned loudly with pleasure, her voice rising and falling without restraint, even as she forced her hips to move faster than she usually did. There was effort in it, an eagerness that bordered on desperation, as though she were trying to wring something more from the act than it was capable of giving her.
Her moans filled the room—loud, unrestrained, and deeply irritating. The sound of her thighs slapping against his own was strange to him, a sensation he had never grown accustomed to no matter how many times he endured it. There was heat, friction, movement—yet none of it stirred what it was meant to.
The smell hanging in the air was wrong.
