She promises him later pleasures--that he might swallow that down while she watches--and his own cock, red and desperate, beads and leaks between them, smearing precome and sticky slick across her stomach as she leans across him. She grinds and it is so good, his brow dips and he draws a sharp breath--

Then she moves.

The accompaniment is so lovely, the sounds and sighs and clinking and percussion--he sings with it. Low and melodious and louder as she works. His hands grip and his hips roll up into her thrusts, drag out the pressure and the slide of that wonderful obsidian cock. It punches the air from him as she sinks and when he opens his eyes he sees her, wreathed in dark hair, eyes watching, breasts moving with each thrust--

He gasps, sharp and jagged, his back arching off the bed entirely as she drags that heavy, massive cock over his prostate. He feels suddenly faint, lightheaded, and he wants her to do nothing more than that, again and again. He babbles as much, groaning and singing with his keening moans.