He pulled out.
Slow.
The withdrawal of nine inches from a pussy that had spent the last hour rearranging its entire understanding of capacity — the wet, clinging drag of it, her walls reluctant, the grip of her not releasing easily, the specific, comprehensive 'resistance' of a body that had decided something belonged inside it and was filing a formal objection to its removal.
The sound it made was honest.
Wet. Full. The sound of something very thoroughly used being vacated.
She exhaled.
Long. Shaking. The breath of a woman who has just had her entire internal architecture revised and is taking stock of the damage.
His seed followed him out.
Not a trickle. The 'volume' of it — the full, thick, warm flood of everything he'd deposited against her cervix now taking the path of least resistance — the slow, heavy pour of it from her stretched, gaping entrance down the cleft of her and onto the ruined sheets below.
He looked at it.
