He came.
The load entering her directly — no trajectory, no arc, direct delivery, the full thick volume of it going into her throat with the immediate, complete commitment of something that had been building through the evening.
He felt her swallow.
Reflex. The inverted swallow — her throat working around the deposit, the muscle memory of the action running without her permission, her body processing the delivery with the trained efficiency of something that had been doing this all day.
He lowered her.
The careful, two-handed lowering of an inverted woman back to a vertical orientation — her feet finding the ground, her knees finding ground, her body rearranging from inverted to kneeling with the slow, gravity-assisted adjustment of something being restored to its preferred orientation.
She knelt.
Her face.
