8mi Chapter 540 - 539- The Doubt of a Child
Chapter 540 - 539- The Doubt of a Child
"HHHHHNNNGGHHHH~~♡♡♡~~~!!"She came.
The orgasm and the urination arrived simultaneously — the way they will, in a woman who has been taken past the point of physical regulation, the body releasing everything at once in the complete, involuntary, non-negotiable way.
Her whole body trembled violently, as if getting seizures, as the blood rushed, the heart racing, and the gut-wrenching sensation through her body into uttermost until the pressure built up inside of her womb, which rushed out as if telling her to empty herself or she might really lose.
"HIAAANNN~~ MAS—♡~TER~!!!"
Scklhch
The spray came from her.
Downward.
Directly onto Edric.
The warm, mixed flood of it — her orgasm and her bladder both releasing at the same instant, the combined liquid falling onto the man pinned on the floor below his own wife’s suspended, shaking, completely undone body, hitting his face, his chest, soaking through his shirt.
His wife’s fluids.
On his face.
He could feel them.
He could not turn his head away.
The vine held him. The angle held him. His eyes held open in the only direction available.
Helviana’s head dropped back on Viktor’s shoulder, her panty-covered face turned sideways, her mouth open against his neck, the sounds coming from her throat the sounds of a woman cycling through the extended, shaking aftermath of something large.
"Haahh— haahh— aahmm~♡— Mas...ter~— please...more~—"
"Hieek.... sob.... Annh... Haa... Haa... M-my..."
The milk ran freely from her nipples in two thin, continuous streams, falling to the floor, joining everything else.
Edric’s head — held up by the vine — had been turned.
Turned by the vine, slowly, with the patient adjustment of something ensuring the correct angle.
He was looking up at his wife’s face.
At the panty across her eyes.
At her open mouth.
At the expression she was wearing — the devastated, overwhelmed, thoroughly broken and completely honest expression of a woman who had been remade into something she had not been when her husband left for the garrison — and had not fought the remaking.
Viktor looked down at him.
From above her shoulder.
Those violet eyes finding Edric’s forced-open eyes over the top of Helviana’s panty-covered face.
He bit her shoulder.
"Ummh... What a good bitch."
Not hard. The slow, deliberate press of teeth into flesh, her head rolling sideways with a soft, drugged moan.
"That’s enough for this round," he said. Conversationally. To her.
She shivered.
"Should I take you somewhere?"
Helviana’s body went still.
The shiver running through her — not fear. The particular, full-body tremor of a woman whose body is answering a question before her mouth does.
"...Yes," she said. The word came out raw and small and completely genuine. "Wherever you want, Master."
Viktor looked at Edric.
For one long, unhurried moment.
Then he looked away.
He was done looking at the man on the floor.
His hips drove into her once more — deep, full, seated — and came.
The load was thick and immediate, pumping directly into her anal in long, heavy pulses, his cock twitching with each release, his balls drawing tight against his body. She felt each one — her whole body jerking slightly with each pulse, small sounds coming from her mouth with each.
"Mnh~— mmh~— mnhh~—"
Accepting it. All of it.
He pulled out.
She made a sound at the withdrawal — the small, involuntary protest of a body that had reorganized itself around an occupation.
He tossed her onto the bed.
She landed face down, hips up, the position her body assumed automatically — knees under her hips, ass raised, the way a body positions itself when it has been trained to a particular expectation.
Her ass high.
His seed running from her anal in a slow, thick drip, falling onto the sheet below her.
Her pussy still gushing in small, rhythmic pulses from the orgasm, the tail having withdrawn with him, the interior of her visibly twitching around nothing, her walls still clenching, still looking for something to hold.
Her mouth open against the mattress.
Licking.
Finding the corner of a pillow and licking it with the dazed, drugged, completely unself-conscious motion of a woman whose body was still running far ahead of any remaining editorial capacity.
"Mmnh~— more~— please~— more—"
Edric looked at this.
At his bed.
At his wife.
At the position her body had assumed without instruction.
At the word she was making with her mouth.
’More.’
Viktor sat on the bed beside her.
His hand rested on her ass. Casually. The settled, proprietary placement of a man who has decided something belongs to him and has no questions about it.
He looked at Edric.
His eyes carried the particular, unhurried warmth of a man who is about to say something and has no concern at all about how it lands.
"I’m borrowing her," he said. "For a few more rounds."
Edric stared up at him.
At the violet eyes.
At his wife’s ass under Viktor’s hand.
At her mouth still making small sounds against the mattress.
Viktor’s fingers snapped.
The sound was very small.
The bed vanished.
Helviana vanished.
Viktor vanished.
The room was there. The floor was there. The window. The low evening light coming through it. The flower outside on the step. The hygiene pad beside it. The bamboo cane on the floor three feet from Edric’s hand.
The sheets on the floor where the bed had been — the damp, ruined, completely honest documentation of everything that had happened in this room — still there. The smell of it still in the air.
A voice.
Not in the room. Everywhere. The specific, sourceless presence of something that has chosen to communicate without being visible.
"Either way, you don’t need it."
Viktor’s voice. Warm. Conversational.
"Not the bed. Not the woman who needed to be banged daily on this bed. I will bring her back in morning, don’t worry."
A pause.
"Probably."
The vines released.
His ankle. His wrist. The back of his neck.
His tongue.
The seal on his mouth dissolved.
His feet — he could feel them. His hands — he could feel them. His eyelids — they blinked, the reflex so sudden and involuntary after the deprivation that he blinked four times in rapid succession, his eyes stinging with the relief of it.
He was on the floor.
In his bedroom.
Alone.
His wife was gone.
The flower was outside on the step.
He could speak.
He could move.
He could feel everything.
Every single thing.
The sound that came out of him had no structure and no dignity and no relationship to the controlled, steady voice of a former guard captain who had survived eleven years of garrison duty.
It was the sound of a man hitting a floor he had not known was there — the full, unedited, comprehensive sound of something breaking that had not known it could break.
"ARRRGGHHHHHH!!!! GIVE HER BACK TO ME!!!!!"
It went through the walls.
It went down the stairs.
Outside, on the step beside the flower and the hygiene pad, his son heard it.
The boy looked at the door.
At the sound coming from behind it.
Ate the last of his skewer.
Decided to wait a little longer before going in with just one question.
"Are they making some sibling for me?"