Both hands. Both breasts. His fingers sank. He groped. He kneaded. He lifted. The heavy, massive mounds. He weighed them in his hands. The density. The fullness. The sheer, physical weight of the flesh. He pulled. The nipples stretched. The breasts elongated. He let go. The flesh settled. The ripple — the wave that traveled through the mounds — was visible.
"Hahh... m-my lord... your hands... they are..." she moaned. Her voice was low. The voice of a woman whose breasts are being groped and who is — enjoying it. Against her will. Against her reason. Against everything she has been for a hundred years.
His mouth found her nipple.
He leaned. His mouth went to the dark, large peak. His lips sealed. He sucked. The nipple — stiff, elongated, the flesh hot — was in his mouth. His tongue worked. His teeth grazed.
