"Did you cum?" she asked while straddling my face, dripping the white cream from her pussy onto my face. All I could see, from my vantage point, was her rose-colored swollen clit and the belly-soft undersides of her breasts. She moved her crotch above me, coating me with the product of our synchronized orgasms. I was tied to the bed, and had been for most of the afternoon. She had done it all to me. I was her toy, red and swollen and boiling, every muscle in my body exhausted from constant spasm and release, contraction and expansion. I had been rigid and flacid, sweating and chilled. Her soft spongy labia, swollen with desire, had left a trail from my toes to the top of my head. I had been coated in her sweetness, had felt the insistence of her nipples on my legs, balls, cock, stomach, chest and face. She smelled like every flower, fruit and pussy in the world. She had hovered over me like a bird of prey, all afternoon. The smooth glass dildo was her favorite tool. She massaged my insides, while sucking on me, building me to the point of constant, slow, seeping. When I finally filled her with the confection of my exploding cock, I screamed into her breasts, straining against my bonds. She bellowed into the air, her pussy sucking and pulling and gripping, spasmodically, with each thrust, until she collapsed onto my chest. She regained her breath, kissed me and fed me.