The tit-fuck.
His cock moving through the pressed warmth of her — the milk still on her skin making the slide wet, warm, the specific, layered sensation of silk and sweat and milk all present — and she cried, her hands coming up.
He grabbed them.
Pressed them against her own breasts.
"Hold them together," he said. "Tighten. Aren't you a good, cultured wife serving her husband?"
She stared up at him.
The specific devastation of that sentence — 'good cultured wife' — arriving in the context of what was currently happening on her wedding bed with the precise, surgical cruelty of irony that knows exactly where to land.
Her arms pressed inward.
Hugging her own breasts together.
The bangles pressing cold against her own skin.
The tears running.
