“Her tits barely fit into her bra,” he groans, the sound of wet flesh filling the cell. “I could see her nipples through the silk. They were hard. They were hard for us.” Now I’m moaning, too, beating myself in a frenzy. And I can feel his eyes there. I tell myself I don’t care if he looks, that it makes no difference to me. I don’t acknowledge the fact that his attention is making my abs flex painfully, my skin burn. In shame? In confusion? I have no idea. I just keep my own eyes locked on the ceiling and let the climax draw closer. Closer. “When we find her,” I say, my breath running short.
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