Tubman sweated garlic juice off his fat fucking belly. His distended ribcage pressed out against his crappy skin. The bitch could hardly breathe beneath his bulk.
His too-small, gin-blossomed ass pumped in ferocious spasms between her impossibly splayed legs, forcing Godzilla noises out of the overtaxed, tube metal futon frame.
"Oh fuck," Tubman wheezed, spraying droplets of sour spittle, "I'm gonna make! I'm gonna make! Nnnnnnnng! I'm.... Making!!"
He collapsed on top of her and let out a minute-long question of a fart.
The End