He pressed Desiree Delite's back into the wall and she squealed like a tire peeling out against concrete, raking her nails across his back so hard it nearly drew blood. He had intended to stand and deliver, but when she wrapped her legs around his torso and sank her teeth into his shoulder it became apparent she intended to ride him like her bike. Sex standing up wasn't just a position, it was an extreme sport.
"Again!" she said, and her voice was a scream that could match her husband's.
He pressed her against the wall again, in time with a thrust. He was supporting her weight with his hands, digging his fingers into the flesh of her ass, and the harder he squeezed the more she squealed.
"Again! Harder!" She dug her nails into his scalp and looked him in the face and he could see how hungry she was, hungry unlike any other woman he had ever seen.
So he slammed her up against the wall this time, driving in so deep he could have gotten lost, lifting her up higher into the air just with the motion of his hips.
"YES!" She threw back her head and her hair flew everywhere and he did it again, so hard he thought he was going to crack the dry wall. She screamed and grabbed him by the hair with one hand, ripping off his visor with the other. He did not protest as she threw it aside, leaving him blind, and he did not protest when she pulled his face down against the tops of her breasts, cutting off his air.
"Faster!" she screamed, and when he picked up the tempo she screamed again, he thought she was having an orgasm right there, but she kept screaming, "Faster! Faster! Faster! Faster! FASTER!"
He went faster, and faster, and faster, until the muscles and joints of his hips were like well-oiled pistons in a combustion engine, going with such speed that it shouldn't have been possible to keep it up for more than a few seconds. She was wet, wet enough that there was no friction where the important bits touched, but he heard a very faint scraping, and a buildup of heat right above his-
More out of sudden alarm than need for breath he lifted his face up. He couldn't look at her, but he could tell she was looking at him. He didn't slow down yet, though, wouldn't until she either finished or said to.
"I smell burning hair," he said, because it occurred to him that he did.
"That means, Mr. Godot," she said with a purr as she leaned in close and nipped at his ear, and then she shoved his face back down into her breasts, "you're doing it riiiiiiight!"