art by crypsis
Whatever cognitive capacity he had was fading into a place made of red-blackness and deep, impossible damp heat. Max’s face remained fixed in an open-mouthed, toothy half-grimace of need. His eyes had closed under his shaggy hair, but he didn’t need to see her to feel her. He didn’t need to know anything but what she felt like between his legs, what she was doing to the whole of his cock, and what that was doing to the conscious thoughts that now left him in time with each buck and thrust and jerk from one pair of hips to another.
Then the horizon rushed up at him and Max felt all the heat and all the pressure in his loins gravitate to the base of his spine and up, through him, pulsing and hot and releasing with uncontrollable jerks. His motions stilled to a languid rocking and his elbows gave way, sending him collapsing onto the grass under him. Gnats and dried grass flew by his head at the motion but he, with his eyes closed and his chest heaving, Max was oblivious to everything but the firm ground below him and the weight atop him.
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