"Come here," she whispered, the order now laden with urgency. "Come..."
The rhythm had already been established, a brutal and wet beat that shook not only their joined bodies, but the very structure of the bed.
Victor, standing on the floor, gripped Serafall's hips with a fierce grip, pulling her to meet each of his thrusts.
Each impact was an assertion of possession, a sound of flesh against flesh that echoed in the room like a primal drum.
Serafall, on all fours above Natasha, buried her face in her friend's dark hair, her moans muffled by the volume of the strands.
Her breasts, heavy and loose, swayed violently with the impact of each thrust.
With each forward movement, they slammed forcefully against Natasha's face and shoulders, a soft, fleshy percussion that marked the rhythm of lust.
Natasha's soft, pale skin was already flushed in places, marked not by violence, but by sensual and unconscious abuse.
