The dining room floor feels like a warm, sticky swamp beneath them—tatami mats utterly saturated, dark and slick with layers of dried and fresh fluids: sweat rivers, thick globs of Haruto's cum still leaking slowly from Erica's swollen pussy, her own creamy arousal, spit trails, pre-cum smears. Every shift of their bodies makes soft, wet squishes and leaves glistening imprints behind. The air hangs heavy and close, thick with the raw aftermath of sex—musky fertile scent of her cunt mixed with his salty seed, the faint metallic tang of sweat-soaked skin, the lingering soy-salt ghost of the long-cold miso now barely noticeable under the overpowering reek of their fucking.
