He goes even harder, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, and more violent. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a rhythmic, carnal percussion to her desperate cries.
Marielle begins to cry. The tears flow freely now, streaming down her face and soaking into the pillowcase.
They aren't just tears of pain or even just tears of pleasure; they are tears of total, absolute surrender. She is crying because she is losing the battle.
She is crying because the "lady" is dying, and the "woman" is being reborn in the heat of his friction.
The world begins to blur. The room, the bed, the heavy scent of sex, even the sound of her own voice—it all begins to fade into a white noise of pure sensation.
Her mind, once a fortress of morality and social standing, is dissolving into a sea of pulsing, rhythmic ecstasy. She is losing herself, drifting away from the shore of her old life and being swept out into the deep, dark, beautiful ocean of Mike's dominance.
