It was true. She had been hidden beneath him; all they could have seen were her limbs wrapped around him and his back above the water.

Besides, he wouldn't allow anyone else to see her body.

From now on, only he could look at her.

As he spoke, his hand continued to work its magic, but she remained closed.

He could force his way in, but he didn't want to hurt her.

So he teased her, kneading and pressing, watching the sensitive flesh contract.

Her body betrayed her desire. The pillow eased the pain in her back, and pleasure began to resurface.

Her arousal slicked her, and he spread it, coating her until she glistened.

His fingers grew slick. He coated himself, poised to enter, but the angle was awkward. He needed to lower himself considerably.

He repositioned her, pillow and all, back against the tub, lifting her legs. He slid inside, the renewed contact triggering a surge of precvm.

The sight of her legs triggered a primal urge to bite the scars on her calf. Days old, the scabs were reforming. He licked them slowly, deliberately, like a predator toying with its prey.

The texture of the scar against his tongue was rough, almost prickly. The urge to bite down was overwhelming. He tightened his grip, thrusting hard.

The waterlogged pillow beneath her compressed and released with each thrust, like waves crashing on the shore.

Had they been on a bed, it would have been shaking.

With her legs raised, the pressure concentrated at their point of connection sent a wave of aching numbness through her. She shifted, trying to lower her legs. He watched the scars for a moment, kissing them before releasing her.

He lowered her legs again, his knees reddening from the friction against the tub, desperate to reach her cervix, only to find it closed again.

He ground against her, impatient.

Clenching his jaw, he grabbed the showerhead, increasing the pressure, aiming the stream at her cl1t. She cried out, arching her back.

He held her fast, reveling in the movement of her hips, even slowing his pace, the sensation almost unbearable.

One hand wasn't enough to restrain her completely; she managed to squirm away occasionally, only to be pulled back, impaled again.

No matter how she moved, the spray remained focused on her.

He turned the water up, her cl1t reddening, and even her inner labia, usually pale, flushed pink.

Her entrance spasmed, trying to clamp shut, biting at the base of his p3nis.

She shuddered, a wave of release washing over her, leaving her limp.

His hand moved from her waist to her thighs, holding them apart as he brought the showerhead inches away. His c0ck pulsed, sending droplets of water flying.

He watched, mesmerized, as her body convulsed. He slammed into her cervix, the contractions tighter than ever due to the external stimulation.

Barely halfway in, he came, her abdomen clenching around him.

The sounds of their coupling echoed in the bathroom. Their bodies, flushed from the prolonged activity, glowed with an unnatural heat, especially her thighs, a shade of red he'd never seen before.

The shower played a significant role in the intense color, the pressure hitting the perfect balance between pain and pleasure, leaving her weak and pliant.

He knew he should move the showerhead, but the tightness was too intoxicating.

It was an experience that transformed her entrance into a second cervix.

He came again and again, tireless. Her fluids mixed with his, whipped into a froth by their movements.

He lost track of time, until a pinkish discharge seeped from her, jolting him back to reality.