I stayed buried inside Patricia — the thick half-length she could actually take throbbing deep in her velvet grip. Her inner walls still fluttered in frantic, irregular spasms around me, like tiny wet mouths kissing and releasing in aftershock waves.
Every heartbeat of hers squeezed me tighter, then loosened, then squeezed again — a living, greedy rhythm that milked precum from my tip in slow, hot pulses.
Her slick ran in continuous, warm rivers down the exposed shaft, pooling thickly at the base where her stretched entrance kissed my skin, then dripping in heavy, sticky strands that cooled slightly as they hit my balls and thighs before soaking into the already drenched sheets with soft, wet plips.
The scent was overwhelming now — thick, heady musk of her arousal mixed with the sharper, almost metallic tang of overstimulation, layered over the faint clean salt of my own sweat and the lingering floral trace of Margaret's perfume on my skin.
