"Ugh~"
"aaAH~"
The man's grunt was low and guttural, like something pulled from deep in his chest.
The woman's moan that followed was breathless, breaking into little hitches every time his hips snapped forward.
Slap Squelch... Slap Squelch...
The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, sharp and rhythmic, almost lost beneath the wet, messy squelch of him pushing deeper—again, again—until her moans dissolved into a wordless whine.
Her stomach pressed flush against the silk sheets, fingers twisting into them as he held her hips tight enough to leave marks.
Every thrust drove her forward slightly, the bed creaking under their combined weight. The air smelled like sweat and sex, thick enough to taste, and beneath that, something saltier—his release, pulsing inside her with each twitch of his cock.
Sqolch... Sqolch...
The sound was obscene, unmistakable. His cum spilled out around where they were joined, dripping down her thighs onto the already damp sheets.
She whimpered, half oversensitive, half still arching back against him, greedy for every last drop.
He didn't stop, not even when his balls were empty, just kept rutting into her like he could imprint himself inside her if he just fucked her hard enough.
The room was too warm, the kind of heat that clung to skin.
Gold light from the bedside lamp caught the sweat rolling down his back, her shoulders, the way her hair stuck to her neck in damp strands.
He could feel her clenching around him, still fluttering weakly, and it dragged a rough noise out of him.
His fingers dug in harder.
His hips stuttered one last time, a final, shuddering pulse as the last streaks of his release spilled out around his softening cock—thick, milky strands dripping onto her already-slick thighs.
The woman beneath him gasped, her body twitching with oversensitivity as his seed trickled out of her in slow, warm rivulets.
He didn't pull away immediately, just stayed buried inside her, letting his weight press her deeper into the mattress while his breath rasped ragged against her damp shoulder.
From the plush velvet couch across the room, the husband exhaled, low and satisfied, his own hand still lazily stroking himself.
"Gods, you fill her up so well," he murmured, voice rough with arousal.
His fingers tightened around his cock, thumb smearing precum over the head as he watched them—watched the way his wife's pussy glistened, stretched and messy, how her thighs trembled when the man finally pulled out with a wet, filthy sound.
"Look at her," he added, almost reverent. "You ruined her."
The woman whined, half-protest, half-agreement, her fingers flexing weakly in the sheets.
Her hips arched slightly, as if chasing the loss of him, and the man chuckled darkly, swiping two fingers through the mess between her legs before pushing them back inside her without warning.
She jerked, a broken moan escaping her as his fingers curled, coaxing out another shudder.
"Fuck—she's still squeezing around nothing," he observed, voice thick with amusement.
The husband groaned, his hand moving faster now.
"She always does that," he admitted, breathless. "Takes hours for her to stop clenching. Like she's trying to keep every drop in."
His gaze flickered to the man's fingers, still working lazily in and out of her, and he swallowed hard. "She loves it. Being used. Being full."
The man hummed, withdrawing his fingers slowly, letting her feel every ridge as they slid free. He held them up, glistening under the lamplight, before pressing them against her parted lips.
She took them without hesitation, tongue swirling around the digits, moaning around the taste of herself and him mixed together.
The husband's breath hitched, his hips lifting slightly off the couch as his strokes turned uneven, frantic. "Christ—you're going to make me—"
The man's fingers lingered against her tongue, pressing down just enough to make her gag before she sucked them clean with a wet, obscene noise.
Her lips were swollen, glistening, and when he pulled his hand away, she chased it with a whimper, her hips shifting restlessly against the ruined sheets.
The husband groaned, his hand a blur now, his thighs tensing as he watched his wife's dazed expression—eyes unfocused, mouth slack, still twitching with aftershocks.
"Fuck—fuck—" The husband's voice cracked as his back arched, his release splattering across his own stomach in thick, uneven stripes.
He didn't stop stroking himself, even as his breath came in ragged gasps, just smeared his cum messily across his skin while his wife's pussy still dripped onto the sheets.
The man watched, amused, before dragging a palm over his own softening cock, collecting the last sticky drops of his release and rubbing them into the woman's thigh. She shuddered, her legs falling open wider, as if offering herself again.
The room was silent except for their breathing—heavy, uneven—and the occasional wet sound as the man trailed his fingers lazily through the mess between her legs.
He wasn't hard anymore, but the way she clenched around nothing when he pressed two fingers back inside made his cock twitch weakly.
"Greedy," he murmured, twisting his fingers just to hear her gasp. "Still trying to milk me dry."
The husband laughed, breathless, wiping his hand on the couch before reaching for the decanter of wine on the side table. His fingers trembled slightly as he poured, the rich red liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
"She's been like that since the first time you took her," he admitted, taking a long sip before offering the glass to the man. "Wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes, grinding against the sheets like she's still feeling you."
The man accepted the drink, swallowing half of it in one go before setting it aside. The wine was too sweet, cloying, but it helped wash the taste of sweat from his tongue.
He glanced at the woman, still sprawled bonelessly across the bed, her legs spread obscenely wide.
Her stomach was streaked with sweat, her breasts rising and falling with each shallow breath, her cunt glistening under the lamplight—swollen, used, his cum still oozing out in slow, thick rivulets.
The man's fingers lingered at the woman's entrance, pressing lightly just to watch her hips jerk involuntarily. He glanced over his shoulder at the husband, whose face was still flushed with the aftermath of his own release.
"If I keep doing this," he mused, voice rough with amusement, "you might just become a father again."
The husband's laughter was low, rich, unfazed as he took another sip of wine.
"Wouldn't be the first time," he admitted, swirling the glass lazily. "Hell, half the staff probably suspects already."
He gestured vaguely toward the door, where muffled footsteps occasionally passed—servants who knew better than to interrupt.
"She's always been… fertile." The way he said it wasn't resentful, just matter-of-fact, like discussing the weather.
The man hummed, dragging his fingers up the woman's thigh, smearing a fresh streak of cum over her skin. She twitched, a weak sound escaping her parted lips.
"You don't care?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. The husband had never cared—not about the money spent on discreet midwives, not about the way his wife's belly would swell months after nights like this.
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