8mi Chapter 537 - 536- Cucked Husband’s Fate
Chapter 537 - 536- Cucked Husband’s Fate
Free of everything, hanging forward with their full, heavy weight in the tilted position she was held at — swaying, jiggling, bouncing with each impact, the nipples stiff and dark, the undersides flushed a deep, heated pink. Each thrust sent them lurching forward and back, the momentum of the full, soft weight of them not catching up with the impact until half a beat after, the fat undersides slapping lightly against her own ribs when they swung.The blood.
Her menstruation cycle. It ran down the inside of her inner thigh in a thin, dark stream, mixing with the continuous, copious slick of her own arousal — the two fluids indistinguishable from each other at this point, both of them coating the thick, long, repeatedly-disappearing-and-reappearing cock driving into her from behind.
The cock.
Thick enough that the entry was visible from the doorway. The stretch of her — her lips pulled wide around the girth of it, red and swollen and glistening, the dark hair of her mound pressed flat and wet against his base when he bottomed out. His balls — heavy, hanging, the skin tight — swinging forward with each thrust to slap against the wet, sensitive skin between her thighs.
’SCHKLL. PHAACK!’
’"MMMPHHG~!! AAHNMM~!! NGHH~!!"’
The sound her body made was not the sound his wife made.
It was the sound a woman makes when something has been done to her body thoroughly enough and long enough that her body has developed opinions separate from her own.
Her pussy clenched visibly around each withdrawal. He could see it from the doorway.
The man behind her — black hair, broad back, the tail moving in a slow, languid coil at his hip — had one hand at her hip and was fucking her with the unhurried, completely certain rhythm of someone who is not in a hurry and has no reason to be. His other hand — or rather, the tail — had wound itself around her left breast from below, coiled twice, the tip pressing the stiff nipple inward as it clutched the full, heavy weight of her tit and held it, the flesh bulging between the coils.
She cried into the panty.
’"Mnnghh~— mmph~— hmnnn~!!! MMPHHG~!!!"’
The man’s voice — unhurried, the voice of a man making a casual observation — said:
"Shit. Your pussy feels too wet today."
He did not stop moving while he said it.
The flower.
Edric was aware — from very far away, from behind the cold white noise filling his skull — that he had left the flower on the step outside.
His hand had the cane.
He was through the door.
"You—"
He was swinging.
’BASTARD’ was the word forming in his chest, rising through his throat, gathering enough air to be a real sound — the full, complete, appropriate word for the full, complete, inappropriate thing he was watching in his bedroom — and it was almost out, almost real, almost the beginning of something when it simply stopped.
Everything stopped.
Not him. Not the room.
’Him.’
His tongue.
The word died between his throat and his mouth. Not pushed back down, not choked — ’cut.’ The precise, invisible, surgical severing of the neural instruction between the intention and the execution, the way a blade cuts a thread, clean and instant.
His feet.
The floor was still there. He could feel it. His boots were on it. But the instruction to move his legs forward — the completely simple, completely automatic command that a man’s body executes ten thousand times a day without thinking — was simply not arriving at his feet.
His hand.
The cane was in it. He could feel the bamboo. He could feel the grain of it against his palm, the specific weight of it. He could not swing it. The swing was there — the intent was full and complete and genuine — and it went nowhere, the instruction leaving his brain and not arriving at his shoulder, the gap between them absolute.
He fell.
Not dramatically. He simply stopped being able to hold himself up and his body went down in the graceless, immediate way bodies go when their structural instructions are removed — knees first, then sideways, hitting the floor with a thud that he felt through his cheekbone because he couldn’t stop himself from landing on his face.
He tried to scream.
His mouth opened.
Nothing.
Not a whisper. Not a breath. His lungs were working — he was breathing, he could feel the air moving — but the sound was gone, sealed at some point between the inside of him and the outside of him, vanished by something he could not see or locate or identify.
His eyelids.
He tried to close them.
Couldn’t.
His eyes were open. Fully. Fixed forward with the complete, physical inability to blink, the air drying the surface of them in a slow, continuous sting.
Then the vines.
They came from the floor.
Not from the wood of the floor — through it, around it, out of the gap between the floorboard and the wall, the crack where the baseboard had pulled slightly away from the skirting. Three of them. Thin and dark and fast, wrapping around his left ankle, his right wrist, the back of his neck — not crushing, not painful, simply ’present’ with the absolute, specific authority of restraint that has no interest in hurting you because hurting you is not the point.
They lifted his head.
Tilted it.
The angle adjusted with the patient, deliberate care of something pointing a thing at something else — his face turned, repositioned, until his field of vision contained the bed.
Fully.
His wife.
Her full back visible to him now — the curve of her spine, the wide, soft spread of her hips, the thick, jiggling weight of her ass bouncing with each thrust, the red-dark mixed fluid running down from where they were joined and dripping from the inside of her knee onto the sheets below her.
Her face.
Turned sideways, cheek against the mattress now, eyes still rolled, the panty still stuffed between her lips, her own hand still pressing it there even though the hand was shaking badly enough that it wasn’t doing much pressing anymore.
’"Mmh~— mmnh~— mmm~— aahmm~—"’
Not screaming. Not anymore. The sound had moved past screaming into something lower and more continuous and much, much worse for a husband to hear — the unedited, involuntary, rhythmic sound of a woman whose body had made its peace with what was happening to it.
The man behind her had not stopped.
Had not acknowledged Edric’s entrance. Had not acknowledged the swing of the cane or the fall or the restraint or the current arrangement of Edric’s face being held at the angle of maximum visibility.
He finished his current thought at his current pace — ’PHAACK. PHAACK.’ — before he reached back, took Helviana by the hips, and tossed her.
Lightly.
The way you toss something onto a surface you own.
She hit the bed.
Her heavy breasts lurched up with the impact and slammed back down against the mattress. Her whole body bounced once, twice, the thick, full weight of her settling with the small, continuing tremors of someone whose nervous system is still firing continuously from several hours of something it wasn’t designed for.
’"Aahhh~— haahh~— mnh~—"’