She comes with wayward abandoned rushes; hips rising, buttocks clenching, eyes focused on the somewhere deep inside her being that coils snakelike in her belly.
It writhes then flails her Medusa hair against the pummelled pillow with the wrecked duvet covered in sweat and union that falls crumpled onto the silent floor.
The night holds their attack of passion like exhibits for a fetish lord of arcane sensuality to mull over with a thong that smells of her and stilettos that smell of her and the sheer blouse that had the good fortune to brush against those pretty breasts.
Their bed holds them within the hollow of its hand in the same way she holds him between her marbled thighs as she bucks and moans as the whore of her inner lust breaks free from the sheltered sanctuary of her salted sex and blossoms like flame into her gut with the thrust and the explosive annihilation of sense and of longing and of desperate desire.
It is a momentary heaven.