But her fingers were rubbing. Her fingers were circling her clit. Her body was responding. Her walls were clenching. Her pussy was producing slick—more and more, thick, clear, mixing with the blood, mixing with the rain, forming foam at her entrance.
His cock was bruising her.
She could feel it. Inside. The walls of her pussy were sore. Tender. Each thrust was a new impact on already-damaged tissue. The bruising was deep—internal, invisible, but she could feel it. A deep, aching soreness that spread through her pelvis, through her lower back, through her thighs.
"Please—!" she cried. "Please— it hurts— it hurts so much— hic— please— slow down— sob— PLEASE—"
He pulled out.
All twelve inches. The shaft emerged. It was coated. Red with blood. White with her slick. Pink where they mixed. The head popped free. Her pussy gaped. Open. Ruined. The lips were swollen. Dark. The entrance was a crater. It twitched. It convulsed. It would not close.
He twisted her.
