8mi Chapter 555 - 554- Old Man got to see Porn
Chapter 555 - 554- Old Man got to see Porn
He stepped in.Not thrown. His own entry — measured, the water rising to his thighs, his waist, the cold landing on him with the same shock it had landed on her with and receiving from him the reaction of a man who had decided it was fine.
He reached her.
She was chest-deep, trying to push backward.
He caught her.
The dress coming away — he pulled it, the soaked fabric dragging off her arms and floating free, leaving her bare in the water, the nipple hooks still attached, the clit hook still attached, the gold of them catching even the filtered forest light.
He turned her.
The pond. The cold water. The absolute, ridiculous, completely genuine outdoor-midday-forest-pond setting.
His cock finding her pussy underwater — the resistance of the water changing everything, slowing the entry, adding weight, the cold of her walls warmer than the water around them, the contrast immediate.
She felt him enter.
"MMNGH~!!♡—" Her hands finding his arms. Not pushing. Holding. "It’s cold—and your cock is hot—it’s—NGH~!!—it’s so—HAAHH~!!♡—"
PAH!!
"AAANGHH~!!♡—"
The pond reacted.
Water displaced outward in rings. The surface breaking and re-breaking with each thrust, the sound of it — water and flesh and the hollow, amplified echo of the forest around them — carrying further than any indoor equivalent.
The birds above them relocated.
"MY PUSSY HURTS~!!♡—" she cried, and meant it entirely. The full, honest, pain-tinged cry of a woman whose body had been continuously occupied for many hours and was now being occupied in cold water with a clit hook pulling. "MASTER~!! I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHY MY BODY IS CRYING ANYMORE~!!♡ I JUST CRY~!! EVERYTHING HURTS AND FEELS GOOD AND I CAN’T—NGH~!!—TELL THEM APART~!!♡—"
PAH PAH!!
"AAAHH~!! HAAHH~!! YOUR COCK~!!♡ EVEN IN THE WATER YOUR COCK IS—NGH~!!—WHY~!!♡ WHY IS IT STILL THIS HARD~!!♡—"
He pulled the clit chain.
She went under briefly.
Came up choking.
"NGHH~!!♡♡!! MASTER—I SWALLOWED WATER—"
PAH PAH PAAH!!
"KYAAANGHGHH~!!!♡♡!!—"
The nipple hooks pulled taut as he gripped the chain between them — both her nipples yanked toward each other in the water, her heavy breasts pulling inward, the milk running free into the pond in thin, white threads that dissolved immediately.
Her eyes rolled.
"My body~♡— my whole body~♡— I can’t feel anything except your cock~♡— everything else is just cold and numb~♡— and your cock is the only thing that’s warm~♡—"
The internal sensation of it, spoken directly, without editing.
He came inside her pussy.
Deep. Pressing her back against his chest in the water, one arm across her, the load going into her underwater with the particular, submerged, trapped heat of it.
She felt it.
"Mnh~♡— it’s warm~♡— inside it’s so warm~♡—"
"
### Nightfall — The Aldenmere Campsite
Old Bren made a fire.
He had been doing this for forty years and was very good at it.
He placed it fifty feet from the carriage, the comfortable, reasonable distance of a man who had learned appropriate distances over a long career. He sat near it with his pipe and his tin cup and his professional silence and looked at the fire and did not look at the tree ten feet behind him where sounds were occurring.
The old maid sat near the fire also.
Younger every hour. Her white hair catching the firelight, the face beneath it now carrying the years of a woman in her thirties — full, clear, the eyes sharp and composed. She had dressed Helviana three times during the journey. Had re-dressed her each time with the patient efficiency of a woman who understood that the dressing was always temporary.
She was darning something. A stocking. The needle moving with the continuous, composed rhythm of a woman doing needlework by firelight at a campsite, completely indifferent to the sounds coming from the tree.
Near the fire, at the edge of the firelight, an older man.
Not old Bren.
A traveler who had been at the road when the carriage stopped — a merchant, by his clothes, traveling south, his own fire smaller, his own company limited to a horse and a pack. He had accepted the invitation to share the larger fire with the grateful, slightly flustered gratitude of a man who had been alone on the road for several days and found the company of people preferable to the company of trees.
He was coughing.
Occasionally. The cough of a man in middle age who had a chest complaint and was managing it — taking something from a small tin, sipping from his flask, pulling his coat closer.
He had been looking toward the tree.
He stopped.
He looked at the fire.
He looked at his flask.
He took another sip.
He looked at the old maid.
She continued darning.
She did not offer him anything in the way of explanation or acknowledgment.
He looked at the fire.
PHACK!!
"AAANGHH~!!♡♡!!!—"
He coughed into his flask.
"
### At the Tree
Viktor had her inverted.
Her back against the tree trunk. Her legs up — both of them, over his shoulders, her ass and hips lifted off the ground entirely, her head at cock height, the full, thick, inverted weight of her hanging with her heavy breasts falling toward her chin and the nipple hooks pulling with gravity.
His cock in her mouth.
Not her mouth at his cock — the other arrangement, the full, clinical, devoted inversion of the relationship, where his cock was the point of entry into her face and her mouth was the channel he was using and the distinction was architectural, not philosophical.
"MMMPHHG~!!♡— MLLP~!!♡— SLURRP~!!—"
Her throat working around him. Her hands — both of them, free, clutching his thighs from below — the only thing she could reach in the inverted position, gripping with the desperate, sustained grip of a woman who was keeping herself alive primarily through thigh contact.
He thrust.
Her whole suspended body moving with each thrust — swinging slightly, the momentum of the full, inverted, breast-heavy weight of her carrying her forward and back with each impact, the nipple hooks swinging free with gravity pulling them down toward her face.
PAH PAH PAH!!
"MMPHHG~!!♡♡!! NGHMMLL~!!♡!! SLURRP~!!"
The sounds her throat made were not the sounds of choice.
They were the sounds of a throat being used as a pussy — the wet, involuntary, structureless sounds of a channel receiving something it had not been designed for at this angle with this frequency, producing the honest, unedited audio of the experience.
Her thighs against his ears.
He could feel her pulse in them.
He gripped her hips. Drove forward.
PHACK!!
The sound of his balls against her face was different from the sound of his balls against anything else — the flat, soft, face-specific impact of skin on skin at that geometry, landing on her nose, her cheek, her forehead depending on the angle.
She cried.
The tears running upward — down her forehead, into her hairline, because she was inverted — the physical comedy of inverted crying carrying no comedy for the person experiencing it.
"MMMPHHG~!!♡— NGHH~!!♡—"
He pulled out of her throat.
She gasped.
The long, desperate, comprehensive gasp of a woman who had not been managing her own air supply for several minutes and was now briefly in control of it.
"Mas...ter~♡—" Her voice, inverted, hoarse, wet. "My— my mouth~♡— you used my mouth like a— MMMPHHG~!!"
He pushed back in.
PAH PAH PAAH PAH!!
"MMMPHHG~!!♡♡!!! SLURRP~!! NGH~!! MLLP~!!♡—"