as the clock neared dawn, dead of the night, night had given way to something more primal — the sound of skin meeting skin, punctuated by the rising pitch of women’s voices in some private storm. the silence gave way to breathy exclamations and a soft, consistent thudding — signs of a private intensity shared behind closed doors.
feminine cries echoed faintly through the walls, blending with a persistent, pulsing sound — intimate, unmistakable, and repeated. the quiet was broken by sharp gasps and rising voices — a mix of pleasure and tension