His hand moved.
It found the underside of her left breast first — the heavy, pendulous weight of it pressing into his palm as his fingers spread beneath it, lifting it forward. The dark flesh spilled over his grip, the long nipple straining outward as he pulled the enormous tit into a cone shape, the skin stretching taut.
He twisted the nipple.
Not gently.
Fatima gasped.
The sound left her throat before she could contain it — soft and broken, more surprised than pained, as if her body had forgotten it was still capable of being surprised. Tears gathered immediately at the corners of her innocent eyes, hanging there, trembling.
"Come on," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. His teeth found the lobe and bit. "I said — come on." He pulled the nipple tighter, twisting further, milking the enormous dark-tipped tit with slow, deliberate strokes that made fluid bead at the tip. "Who are you?"
Fatima trembled.
