Chapter 623 - 622- Turn to get Clapped Hard

Chapter 623: Chapter 622- Turn to get Clapped Hard

The words were filthy.

The particular, dirty, possessive, evaluating words of a man who was commenting on a woman’s body while using it. The kind of words that a nobleman should not say. The kind of words that a princess should not hear.

Dara’s expression changed.

The particular, extreme, bitch-like, utterly shameless expression that appeared on Dara’s face — the rolled eyes, the open mouth, the flushed cheeks, the tongue out, the particular, devastated, pornographic quality of a woman who had been fucked so many times that her face had learned the expression as a default.

"Lord Viktor," she moaned. "Please don’t say that."

The contradiction — ’please don’t say that’ delivered while moaning, while bouncing, while riding his cock with the particular, enthusiastic, devoted rhythm of a woman who did not want him to stop — was devastating.

Evriana gasped.

Her hand — the one in her pants — went deeper. Her fingers found her entrance — the virgin, never-penetrated, tight, wet opening that she had never touched internally. She pressed. One finger. The tip. The particular, strange, new, stretching sensation of a woman inserting something into her own body for the first time.

Her dress was wet.

The fabric of her trousers, of her undergarment, was soaked through — the particular, spreading, undeniable, visible wetness of a woman whose arousal had exceeded her clothing’s capacity to contain it. She was wetting her dress. From the inside.

She rubbed.

Faster. Harder. The particular, desperate, chasing, pursuing rhythm of a hand that was approaching something and did not know what.

"I am coming," Dara moaned. "Lord Viktor, please. I am about to—"

’Coming?’

The word was — Evriana had heard it. In the context of men. The clinical, biological, reproductive function of male climax. She knew what ’coming’ meant for a man.

She did not know it applied to women.

Dara moaned loudly.

The sound — the full, raw, uncontrolled, throat-tearing, back-arching, full-body-convulsing moan of a woman reaching orgasm — hit Evriana like a physical force. The sound was not quiet. Not muffled. Not the dignified, controlled, acceptable expression of pleasure that Evriana had imagined women experienced.

"ANNNNNNNGGHHHHH~~~!!!!"

It was a scream.

A full, animal, honest, devastated scream of a body that had been pushed past its limit and was now experiencing something that the diagrams had never mentioned.

And here — Evriana too moaned.

The sound escaped her hand. The particular, high, sharp, involuntary, behind-the-palm sound of a woman who had been rubbing her clit and watching another woman orgasm and had, without warning, without preparation, without understanding what was happening, hit her own.

Her first finger-play orgasm.

It arrived like a wave — not the gradual, building, anticipated crest that she had imagined but the sudden, overwhelming, full-body crash of a climax that she had not known her body could produce. Her cunt clenched around her finger. Her thighs clamped together. Her back arched against the tree. Her mouth opened, the moan escaping, the sound wet and high and completely undignified.

She came.

"Hie...kkk~?!!?!"

Juices — her own, the particular, hot, clear, unfamiliar fluid — ran over her fingers, into her undergarment, into her trousers. The wetness spread. The sensation — the particular, pulsing, contracting, rhythmic squeezing of her vaginal walls around nothing but her own finger — was so intense that her vision blurred.

Her eyes widened.

The particular, post-orgasmic, overwhelmed, what-just-happened wideness of a woman who had just experienced something she did not know was possible.

’I came,’ she thought. ’I came from fingering myself. Watching my nephew have sex with a commoner woman.’

’What is wrong with me?’

The thought was genuine. Not rhetorical. The particular, full-body, post-orgasmic, shame-saturated question of a woman who had just crossed a line and was standing on the other side, dripping.

She thought she had this — the particular, post-masturbation clarity, the afterglow, the settling. She thought it was over. She thought her body had expressed what it needed to express and would now allow her to return to the camp, to her tent, to her dignity.

Then she heard the slurp.

The wet, soft, intimate, unmistakable sound of mouths meeting. She looked.

Viktor was kissing Dara.

"Mmmh.... slurpp..."

The full, deep, tongue-involved, claiming kiss of a man who had just fucked a woman and was now kissing her while she was sensitive, while she was begging, while she was moaning. His mouth on hers. His tongue in her throat. His hands on her face, holding her, the particular, possessive, devouring kiss of a man who was taking everything.

Dara moaned into his mouth.

"I’m sensitive," she whimpered against his lips. "Please, Lord. Slow down."

He didn’t.

He kept kissing her. The wet, sloppy, vulgar, beautiful sound of tongues and lips and breath mixing. His hips moved — slower now, but still moving, still fucking, still pumping his cock into her oversensitive, post-orgasmic cunt.

’Damn it,’ Evriana trembled.

’Why is he kissing her?’

The jealousy was — sharp. Hot. The particular, irrational, possessive jealousy of a woman who was watching a man kiss another woman and was feeling the kiss as a personal insult. As if the kiss — the intimate, mouth-to-mouth, tongue-involved contact — was more violating than the fucking.

The fucking was physical. Biological. The mechanical, purpose-driven act that she had been told about.

The kissing was — intimate.

’He kisses her,’ she thought. ’He kisses her as if — as if she matters. As if she is not just a hole.’

Then he came.

Viktor’s hips slammed upward.

PAAAH!

"AAAAHHH~!!♡♡♡!!"

Dara screamed. The full, final, climaxing scream of a woman who was being filled. Viktor’s cock pulsed inside her — the thick, hot, flooding release of his seed pumping into her cunt, filling her, the cum overflowing around his shaft, running out of her pussy, dripping onto the moss.

Evriana saw it.

The belly.

Dara’s stomach — the flat, smooth, commoner stomach — bloated. Slightly. The particular, subtle, visible distension of a womb being filled with cum. The skin stretched, the abdomen rounding, the particular, undeniable, physical evidence of a man’s seed filling a woman’s body beyond its natural capacity.

’Why is he coming so much?!’

The thought was — she had seen horses. On the Catorian estate, the breeding of horses was a known, observed, discussed event. The stallion mounting the mare. The — she had seen the stallion’s cock. The size of it. The volume of the release. The particular, massive, overwhelming, animal-scale ejaculation that a breeding stallion produced.

Viktor’s cock was the same size.

His load was the same volume.

The particular, devastating, biology-defying recognition that her nephew — the baby she had delivered, the boy she had taught to walk, the child who had said ’one day I will marry you, Aunty’ — produced the same volume of seed as a breeding stallion.

The cum overflowed. The thick, white, royal fluid ran from Dara’s cunt in streams, pooling on the moss, mixing with the pond water, the particular, obscene, excessive, impossible volume of a man who was not human.

Evriana’s body went limp.

The particular, post-everything, overwhelmed, wrung-out, emptied, done limpness of a woman who had just had her first orgasm and had immediately been confronted with the sight of a stallion-volume creampie.

She leaned against the tree.

Her breath came in ragged, uneven, post-orgasmic gasps. Her hand was still in her pants. Her finger was still inside her. The wetness — her own, the evidence of her climax — was cooling on her thighs.

She thought it was over.

She thought — the woman came. He came. They kissed. The sex was done. She could leave. She could go back to the camp. She could —

"Come on, turn."