IV.

I remember the start of it. But now there’s no end. His wounded cock went limp inside me two hours ago and now he is using his fist. It’s as if he wants to test the limits of what my body can stand.

I come again – this time so hard, my chest aches. The sharp intake of breath, sucked between clenched teeth, parches my dry throat. I try to kneel, to plea for a halt, but I’m entangled in sodden sheets. His hand is still in me, a fingerless clench of bone and muscle pressed against the floor of my womb. If I breathe too deeply, it hurts.

I squirm from him like a punctured worm on a hook but his hand is in too deep.  I tremble as his wrist-bone, enfolded by my swollen labia, crushes my clit’, now red-purple, engorged with blood. I hear myself groan, a muted, guttural lament that resonates within my chest. My thighs are slick with cheap lubricant, saliva and vaginal fluid, my torso sticky with sweat and half-dried cum. All I can smell is my cunt.

I lose consciousness for a minute and but he rouses me with a gentle shove. He will not let me stop.

There is no space left inside me. I have absorbed as much of him as I can. I lose myself in an ecstatic tremor, as if I’m ejaculating through every pore. Tear my guts out, I mutter. Maybe pain will bring me back from this ragged precipice.

 Too late. A gout of hot fluid – his? mine? – between my legs. But this isn’t a release. Nor is it the end. Tears sting my eyes. I squeeze them shut.