And above — his fingers still pounded deep into the tight, soaked, trembling, completely overwhelmed interior of Frau Müller's pussy while his thumb pressed firm circles against her clit with merciless attention, exactly as though he had located the perfect frequency and was now playing it at full volume.
Frau Müller was not forming words anymore.
She had stopped forming words some time ago. What she was doing instead was producing a continuous, streaming, hall-filling, wall-bouncing sequence of sounds that began somewhere in her chest and arrived in the air having passed through very little in the way of management or filter.
Her hips were rolling, working, grinding back against his hand with full commitment, as her body had taken complete control in total override.
Her fingers had ripped the towel from the foot of the table and were gripping it with both hands, holding on with white-knuckle force to something fixed while everything else moved wildly.
She was going to—
