it was a cataclysm

From her internal perspective, it was a cataclysm. The first violent pulse wasn’t just a spurt; it was a surge. A hot, thick jet of fluid launched from the tip of his cock, which was buried so deep the swollen head was kissing, no, battering against the tight, resistant mouth of her cervix. The semen didn’t just hit her walls; it splattered them. The first burst painted the deepest part of her tunnel, a white-hot splash against the muscular ring.

Then the second pulse, a heartbeat later, stronger. His shaft, which felt like iron inside her, convulsed. The urethra along the underside seemed to ripple against her sensitive front wall. This jet was a flood, a river reversing course, rushing forward to fill the space he’d just vacated with his outward stroke. It filled the upper chamber of her vagina, a warm, pooling weight.

The third, and fourth, and fifth… they lost distinction, merging into a continuous, hot gush. It wasn’t leaking; it was packing her. She felt it bubbling around his still-throbbing shaft, seeking every crevice. It coated her cervix in a slick, warm layer, the strange, intimate sensation of being marked internally. Some of it, under the relentless pressure of his orgasm and the tight seal of her body, was forced against the cervical os itself. She felt a bizarre, deep twinge as the tiny, stubborn opening was tested, warmed, anointed.

Her own orgasm crashed into his, triggered by the incredible internal sensation of being filled, by Quivina’s clever fingers, by the sheer, illicit perfection of it all. This climax was a wave, a suffusing warmth that started in her stuffed cunt and radiated outward, making her toes curl, her scalp tingle. Her vaginal walls, already stretched taut around him, clamped down in rhythmic, powerful spasms, milking him, drawing every last drop from his pulsing cock.