He swung his cock.
Not toward her.
Just the casual, deliberate arc of a man measuring the distance between where he was and where he intended to be — the full, dense weight of it swinging against the generous softness of her right cheek, the wet slap of it landing with the sound of something that understood its own purpose.
SLAP.
"AAAHH~—"
She flinched.
Not away.
Into the pillow — face-first, her fingers gripping the flower petals, her shoulders coming up — the full-body flinch of someone bracing against the next thing while simultaneously being unable to determine from which direction the next thing will arrive.
He looked at Suresh.
Not a glance. The direct, warm, entirely unhurried look of a man who has decided that the person sitting bound on the floor is the relevant audience for the next several minutes and is addressing him accordingly.
He spread her.
