He pulled out.

The sound it made was obscene — wet, dense, the specific noise of a body releasing something it had been wrapped around — and Yuna’s pussy didn’t close.

It ’gaped.’

Pink. Raw. The freshly stretched walls fluttering around the absence of him, visibly trembling — shaped already, in just one hour, into the beginning of the mold he had been carving — and from the ruined entrance: his seed, thick and white, flooding outward in a slow, continuous river, washing every last trace of red with it.

All that blood.

All that red.

Covered.

Replaced by white.

Yuna’s belly ’bulged.’

Not grotesquely — the soft, visible distension of a flat stomach filled beyond its usual capacity, the skin pressing outward just slightly below her navel, as if her body was physically acknowledging how much of him was inside her.

She pressed both hands against it.

Small. Shaking.

"’I feel—’" Her voice cracked. "’I feel him in my ’stomach’—’"

His hand pressed over hers.

Both their palms flat on her belly. His over hers. He pressed — downward, firmly — and the seed gushed out of her like a faucet, flooding the wrecked sheet below, and she ’cried’, her back arching off the bed.

"’AAANGHH~!!’"

He reached for the jeans.

The remnant — the torn denim still clinging to her left leg, the waistband hanging from her hip in strips — and he grabbed it with both hands and ’tore.’

The sound ripped through the room.

Yuna yelped.

The fabric came apart entirely, shredding away from her body, and for a moment the pieces hung in the air — then the bed bounced as he threw her, literally picked her up by the hip and threw her sideways across the mattress, the full, light weight of her landing on the ruined sheets, her breasts and ass jiggling with the landing impact, her body coming to rest with her legs open and her expression the expression of someone who has been used past the point of protest.

Jennifer — lying beside her, still spent, still softly leaking onto the sheets — turned her head.

Their eyes met.

Two women on the same wrecked hotel bed, in different states of ruin, looking at each other with the specific, hollow camaraderie of people who have been through the same storm from different angles.

Jennifer’s eyes said: ’I know.’

Yuna’s eyes said: ’How are you still alive.’

He climbed onto the bed.

The mating press arrived without ceremony.

His hands found her ankles, lifted — her legs going up and over, thighs folding against her chest, her knees nearly at her ears — and the angle it created was architectural, the full, deliberate exposure of everything the position demanded, her pussy presented upward at the angle he needed.

He looked down at her.

Her tear-streaked face. The swollen, red-marked entrance of her pussy, still gaping slightly, his seed still running from it. The soft, full curve of her breasts pressed together between her own thighs. The absolute, total ’vulnerability’ of this position, which had no variant where she was anything except completely open.

He pressed his cock against her.

The cockhead — still flushed, still slick — finding the stretched entrance and ’pushing.’

"’HNGH~—’"

Straight down. The vertical weight of him, gravity added to his hips — the cock plunging in one long, deep stroke that went places the first position hadn’t reached, that pressed directly at the wall of her womb with the blunt, honest force of a man who had decided the destination and arrived at it.

PAH!

"’IAAAANGHH~!!’"

The bed frame hit the wall.

Her belly visibly displaced.

The outline of him inside her — the obscene, hentai-honest bulge pressing against the skin of her lower abdomen from the ’inside’, his shape visible through her own body — traveling inward with each thrust, the soft skin of her stomach deforming around the pressure of his cockhead pressing against her womb wall.

Yuna looked down at her own belly.

At the shape moving under her skin.

"’That’s—’" Her voice. Broken. "’That’s inside my—’"

PAH! PAH! PAAAH!

"’AAANGHH~!! AAAHH~!! HE’S IN MY — RAVEN — STOP — YOU’RE IN MY WOMB—’"

His hand reached sideways.

Without breaking pace.

Jennifer was close enough — lying beside the action, her exhausted body still, her bound wrists slack now because he had cut them at some point during the previous hour — and his hand found her breast.

The full, heavy, milk-warm weight of it.

He grabbed the nipple.

And ’pulled.’

"’MMNH~!!’"

Jennifer’s back arched off the mattress with the reflexive jolt of a woman who has zero reserves left and whose body is responding purely on nerve signal — the thin jet of milk from the nipple catching the hotel light, spraying briefly before his mouth descended and ’took.’

He was fucking Yuna.

He was sucking Jennifer’s breast.

Both simultaneously. His hips driving the relentless, blurring press into the girl below him while his mouth worked at the woman beside him, his other hand — two fingers — finding Jennifer’s exposed, hairy cunt and pressing ’in.’

Jennifer’s hips shot upward.

"’AAANGHH~!! N-NOT AGAIN — I CAN’T — PLEASE—’"

PAH! PAH! PAH! PAAAH!

"’IAAAANGHH~!!’" — Yuna, her legs trembling over his shoulders.

"’AAANGHH~!! HNGH~!!’" — Jennifer, his fingers curling inside her.

The symphony.

The room ’full’ of them, the two voices layering and separating and layering again, the wet sound of the fingers and the wet sound of the cock and the flesh impacts coming at different rhythms but building into the same overwhelming density of sound.

Yuna’s hands came up.

Both of them, pressing against his chest — the protest of a woman who is being folded in half and is starting to have opinions about this — and he caught both wrists.

’One hand.’

He wrapped both her wrists in one fist, pressed them above her head into the pillow, and his hips ’blurred.’

PAH! PAH! PAH! PAH! PAH! PAAAH!

"’AAANGHH~!! STOP — STOP — RAVEN — PLEASE — TOO DEEP — YOU’RE TOO DEEP — AAAHH~!!’"

Her eyes rolled.

The whites showing at the edges, her irises tilting upward — not unconsciousness, the specific, involuntary response of a nervous system operating past its current capacity — her mouth open, jaw slack, the tears running continuously from the corners of her wet eyes.

He moved like a machine.

Like the consideration of pace had been removed entirely and what remained was just the raw mechanism of hips and cock and the deep, relentless drive of a man using a body with total, committed efficiency.

Yuna’s pussy was making sounds.

The wet, dense, carrying sounds of a freshly deflowered cunt receiving this pace — the liquid, layered noise of the seed inside her being worked against the walls, the slick friction of a passage that had been stretched and filled and was being stretched and filled again — and every few strokes the excess ran down, flooding out, and he drove it back in.

"’AAANGHH~!! HNGH~!! RAVEN — I LOVE YOU — IT HURTS — DON’T STOP — I LOVE—’"

Jennifer, beside them.

"’MMNH~!! YOUR FINGERS — HNGH~!! PLEASE — I’M EMPTY — GIVE ME MORE—’"

Both of them.

He pulled out.

Climbed up her body.

His knees landing on either side of her ribs — the full, controlled straddle, his cock directly above her chest — and he reached down and grabbed her breasts.

Both of them.

Pressed them together around his cock — the warm, soft clench of her tits sandwiching him, her nipples dragging against his shaft — and he ’stroked.’

Three pumps.

Then he turned.

The arc of his seed landed across Jennifer’s breasts first — thick, white, the heavy ropes of it striping across the soft, milk-heavy flesh of the woman who had fed him half the day — and then redirected, the second landing across Yuna’s chest, her collarbone, her chin.

Both of them.