She had made him cum, he informed her. “Well, no,” she interjected. “That’s not quite true.” And it wasn’t. In a sense, she had got him ready, but only by being so beautiful. That had made him hard. It had not made him cum. For that, the rapid, shuffling motion of his hand, clasped as it was around his pole, had been required. After some seconds of that, yes, the gunksome serving had been drawn forth from his prostate and, via the well-directed penile hose, hurled onto her face, where there still sat a snail-trail-like remnant, and a tell-tale crispening of part of her fringe.
The man informed him that yes, she was gorgeous, even in the morning with no makeup, and yes, she was a terrific shag, but that, also, her bin was overflowing with heavily soiled toilet paper, most of the pieces of which appeared to have been used, turned over or re-folded, and used again, and again, and again, way past the point where the hands must have become soiled too. Also, he admitted that he had merely deduced, rather than discovered, that she was a terrific shag. Also, by ‘bin’, he meant her stomach.