His other hand found her hair.

Not gentle.

A fistful of it at the back of her head — pulling, the angle forcing her head back further, her throat exposed, her chest lifted, the porridge-covered bra pulling with gravity as her back arched.

He pushed the second finger in.

PAH!

"AAANGHH~!!"

She was wailing.

Full-throated, helpless, the sound of a woman whose body has completely left the building and is now operating on pure physiological response. Her hips rolling against his hand — the involuntary, desperate, seeking motion of flesh trying to get more of the thing that had just arrived in it — her thighs attempting to close and finding his forearm between them and settling instead for pressing against it.

PAH! PAH!

"HNGH~!! P-PLEASE~!! AAAHH~!!"

His fingers.

Curled.

The specific, interior pressure — the finding-the-place pressure, the two-knuckle press against the front wall of her that made the wailing change register into something shorter and higher and more specific.

"HIIEEK~!! W-WHAT~!! AAANGHH~!!"

His mouth found her breast again.

The porridge still there — warm and cooling — and he sucked through it, his lips dragging the porridge from her skin as his fingers worked below, the dual sensation arriving from two directions simultaneously, her body trying to process both and managing neither.

Her eyes rolled.

The ceiling above her was suddenly very far away. The candle on the bedside table was a smear of yellow light. Her son in the next room was a thought that existed in a country she had temporarily left.

"P-PLEASE~!! TOO MUCH~!! AAAHH~!!"

PAH! PAH! PAH!

"MASTERRR~!! I CAN’T~!! HIIEEK~!! AAANGHH~!!"

The orgasm arrived like a wall.

Not gradual. Not built — just ’there,’ present all at once, the specific, comprehensive, full-body seizure of a woman who has been thoroughly worked and has been pushed precisely past the threshold.

She screamed.

The sound went into the pillow sideways as her head turned — the instinctive, last-second suppression of a mother who even in this state knows there is a child in the next room.

Her pussy ’fired.’

The jet of it — warm, immediate, the gush of a body releasing absolutely everything it had been holding — soaking his hand, the sheets below her, the inside of her thighs, the folded-aside panty, everything within reach.

Her whole body went rigid.

Then boneless.

The arch at maximum — her back off the bed, her wrists straining, her toes curled — and then the collapse, the full, comprehensive, immediate return of her body to the mattress with the specific, absolute defeat of something that has given everything and is now done.

Her legs shook.

The specific, fine tremor of muscles that have just done something involuntary and extensive and are filing their report.

The sheets beneath her, dark.

Her chest, heaving. The porridge on her bra displaced by her own sweat and the suction, the fabric wet through in its entirety, her nipples dark and peaked and visible.

Her hands still above her. Still tied.

Her thighs still open.

Her pussy, still twitching — the small, rhythmic aftershocks of the orgasm cycling out through her, each one a smaller version of the one before.

He lifted his head.

Looked at her. 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

At the ruin of her. The wet sheets. The porridge. The tears on her cheeks. The hazy, rolled-back-almost-gone quality of her eyes as they found the ceiling and settled there.

He lifted his fingers.

Looked at them.

Considered them.

Looked at her.

His mouth curved.

The specific, slow, unhurried smile of a man who has just eaten a very good meal and is now looking at the rest of what’s on the table.

He leaned down.

Close to her face.

Her eyes — wet, dazed, the specific, post-orgasm blankness of a woman whose entire operating system has just rebooted — found him.

He held her gaze.

"Now," he said.

His voice was warm.

Patient.

The voice of a man who has been waiting since he walked through the shop door and has absolutely no intention of stopping here.

"Should I eat you?"

He stood.

The motion was unhurried — the rise of a man who has decided the floor is no longer where he needs to be — and his hands found his belt buckle.

The metal click of it filled the room the way small sounds fill quiet rooms.

She watched.

Her wrists still tied above her. Her thighs still wet. Her chest still heaving in the slow, recovering rhythm of the post-orgasm body trying to remember what normal felt like.

She watched his hands at the buckle.

At the waistband.

At the slow, deliberate descent of the fabric.

His cock came free.

The full, immediate weight of it — released from the constraint of the trousers, swinging forward with its own momentum, the thick, dark-flushed length of it settling into its natural position with the absolute, unapologetic presence of something that has never once been told it was too much and has therefore never developed any opinions about the matter.

It hung over her body.

The shadow of it fell across her stomach.

Across her chest.

She stared at it.

Her internal processing ran something like:

’That is not—’

’Men do not—’

’My husband was—’

’That is not the same category of object.’

Her husband had been — she had no specific complaint — present, functional, the specific, modest reality of a man who did not inspire his wife to think about dimensions. A finger. Maybe two fingers. Something that fit in the way that reasonable things fit.

This was a cucumber.

A thick, ’dark,’ nine-inch cucumber with a cockhead that was currently at roughly the level of her lower ribs and was looking at her pussy the way a battering ram looks at a gate it has been assigned.

She trembled.

"No," she said.

Her voice came out from somewhere very honest.

"You will not fit."

He tilted his head.

"What."

"I—" Her eyes were still on his cock. She couldn’t get them off it. The specific, unavoidable fascination of something you’re terrified of and cannot stop looking at. "You won’t fit. I’m serious. That is— that doesn’t—"

"I’m not your husband," he said.

"I KNOW YOU’RE NOT—"

"Then what’s the problem."

"It’s too big." She shook her head. Violently. Her hair spreading across the pillow, the motion of genuine, full-conviction refusal. "No. No, no, please. That will — it will stretch me, it will tear me, I’m not—" Her voice cracked. "Please. It’s too big. Please."

He looked at her.

At the specific, wide-eyed, genuinely-frightened panic of a woman who has done the arithmetic and does not like the answer.

"Did your husband have something smaller?"

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

The question was so direct it bypassed all of her defenses and landed in a place she had no prepared response for.

"...Yes," she said, before she could stop herself.

The word fell out.

Honest. Inadvertent. Immediately regretted.

"How much smaller,"

"STOP ASKING ME THINGS LIKE THAT—"

She pressed her lips together.

Her eyes went back to his cock.

’Why is it so big,’ she thought, in the private, baffled interior monologue of a woman genuinely confronting an unknown category.

’Isn’t a man’s— isn’t it supposed to be like— like fingers? Like a— this is not fingers. This has never been fingers... it is like thick cucumber?!’