The world shifted, and my heart stopped. The air was thick and warm, and the sounds were not the quiet hum of a house at night, but a rhythmic, powerful press. I was in a low-lit room, and her—no, my—body was pressed against a man, his hands on her hips, his breath against her neck. Mr. Kurosawa’s voice, low and guttural, was a sudden, terrifying reality.
For a moment, panic seized me, but it was quickly consumed by the sheer, overwhelming reality of what was happening. Her body was already in motion, responding to her husband's rhythm.
I felt the deep, stretching sensation of him inside me, the raw friction of skin on skin, the rising tide of sensation. It was a feeling I had only ever given, never received. The feeling of being filled by an erect penis, of his body moving powerfully against mine, was a shock that quickly melted into a consuming pleasure.
And then, I felt it. A shuddering release. The warmth of him, the flood of it, filling me. He had come inside me. The warmth spread, an undeniable, undeniable presence.
Then Akari’s body came, too. I clutched at the sheets, at his shoulders, feeling him pulsate inside me even as my own shudders wracked my frame. It was entirely, violently unlike every orgasm I'd ever had. There was no time to intellectualize it, to retreat, to assert control. It simply happened, the body jerking and spasming, sensation ricocheting from nerve to nerve, overwhelming and dissolving me.
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