She vaguely recognised sounds emitting from her mouth, but could not even under Veritaserum identify their meaning. All she knew was his tongue, his lips, and then, because clearly there  was a god (and most likely one with a vagina), his fingers were stroking her folds again and circling her clit. She was begging now, she knew. For what, she couldn’t say, but after another few minutes of this divine, exquisite torture, his fingers and mouth withdrew and she felt him pressing into her, the head of his erection drawing apart her folds like it was coming onto a stage for an encore. Which, she supposed, it was. She moaned again, blissful as he began thrusting into her, his hands roving across her arse and hips, rubbing, kneading, stroking. She felt the tickle of his hair against her middle back just before she felt the softest of kisses pressed to her shoulder blade and for some reason that alone made her want to cry again. It was so perfect, so unspeakably perfect, she wanted it to never end. And yet at the same time, she didn’t know how long she could sustain such pleasure so it was with relief that she felt herself again approaching the edge, tumbling over it with a keening cry as she felt him spill himself inside of her. 