She knew he was about to finish. She could tell.
His grip on her hips got stronger, his breathing picked up, he started going even faster. It wasn't exactly subtle, but it wasn't anything he needed to hide anyway. She kept doing what she'd been doing from the moment he slid in: moaning, pushing back, being for him.
They stayed locked together panting a few moments. His cock twitching, emptying into her. Her head hung low. He gave her a squeeze and a kiss on the back of the neck.
It wasn't as though she used to cum from being fucked, at least not all the time. It was just that she used to care that she didn't. There's be disappointment, there'd be frustration.
Now, she didn't even notice. It didn't cross her fluffy, mostly-empty mind. The constant need was normal. The itch to be scratched had stopped being an itch, just become part of how she was. That she even could have cum from being fucked had long been forgotten.
Good girls don't cum, so... what?
When he pulled out she turned around straightaway, like she'd been trained, and took his cock into her mouth. To clean herself off of him, to clean whatever drops of him he hadn't left inside her already, and to thank him for letting her be useful.
It had felt good, obviously. So good. So, so good. But it wasn't for her.
It was for him. Just like all of her was. She had purpose now, not like before. He'd saved her from that, given something better to her. Given her what she'd really been meant for.
So being thankful was important.
Certainly, much, much more important than cumming could ever be.
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