Chapter 790 - 789- A Greedy Wife

Chapter 790: Chapter 789- A Greedy Wife

She was listening. Processing. But her body was responding to the pen, to the touch, to the proximity. Her hips were swaying — small, unconscious movements, her body seeking friction that it wasn’t getting.

I moved down. Her panties. The pink fabric was soaked — a dark, wet patch covering the entire front, the fabric clinging to her swollen lips. The scent of her arousal was thick in the steamy air — sweet, musky, undeniable.

I pulled her panties down. Over her hips, past her thighs, catching at her knees. She trembled. Her hands went to cover herself — then stopped. Dropped. She was too deep into the academic narrative. Too committed to the fiction that this was research.

Her pussy. Hairy — dark, thick curls covering her mound, extending down her inner thighs. The lips were visible beneath the hair — swollen, flushed, the inner flesh glistening. Her clit — engorged, peeking from its hood — throbbed visibly.

I wrote on her thighs. Either side. The notation ran from her knees to her hips, framing her pussy like a border. She was gasping continuously now — a low, constant sound, the breathing of a woman on the edge.

I turned her around. Bent her over. Her hands found the edge of the tub. Her ass — round, full, the skin pale and soft — was positioned perfectly. I wrote on her hips. The curve of her ass. The small of her back.

Then I lifted her. Turned her. Sat her on the edge of the tub, her legs spread, her pussy exposed. I took the razor.

She watched. Her eyes — glassy, unfocused — tracked the blade. I knelt between her legs. The position was unmistakable — my face inches from her pussy, my hands on her thighs, the razor poised.

I shaved her. Methodically. The same careful strokes I’d used on her armpits, applied to the thick curls between her legs. The razor dragged through the hair, leaving smooth skin in its wake. She flinched with each stroke. Her hands gripped the tub’s edge. Her thighs trembled.

When I finished, her pussy was bare. The lips — swollen, pink, glistening — were completely exposed. The hair was gone. The skin was smooth. And she was dripping — a thin strand of clear fluid connecting her entrance to the tub’s edge.

I wrote on her newly shaved mound. The notation — the final piece of the resonance cascade formula — traced across the bare skin. The pen’s nib dragged across her clit.

She arched. Her back bowed. Her hands left the tub and found my shoulders — gripping, crushing, her nails digging in. Her mouth opened.

And she squirted.

The orgasm hit like a thunderclap. Her pussy convulsed — the walls clenching, the muscles rippling — and a thick spray of fluid hit my chest, my stomach, my cock. The juice was hot, sweet-smelling, and copious. It ran down my body, mixing with the bathwater.

"Ah — AH — AAANGH~!!"

Her eyes rolled back. Her body convulsed. Her thighs clamped around my head — I was close enough that I could feel the heat of her pussy on my face, the wetness on my chin. She rode the orgasm for ten seconds, fifteen, twenty — her body jerking, her breath coming in broken sobs.

Then she collapsed. Her grip on my shoulders released. Her body slumped against the tub’s edge. Her chest heaved. Her bare, ink-covered breasts rose and fell. Her pussy — bare, swollen, dripping — twitched with aftershocks.

She looked at me. Her glasses were fogged. Her face was tear-streaked. Her hair was a mess. Her body was covered in notation — ink on every inch of skin, the formula spiraling across her like a living manuscript.

"I’m sorry," she whispered. "I don’t know what — that’s never—"

I smiled. "Do you want to see the last hypothesis?"

She nodded. Weakly. Desperately. The academic — buried under the orgasm, under the sensation, under the overwhelming assault on her body and mind — reared its head one final time.

"Yes. Please."

I stood. Stepped out of the tub. Water ran down my body. My cock — fully hard now, ten inches of thick, veined flesh — jutted forward, the head dark and swollen. I lifted her. Princess carry — one arm under her knees, one behind her back. Her soft body — thick, warm, ink-covered — pressed against my chest. Her breasts crushed against my muscles. Her head lolled against my shoulder.

I carried her out of the bathroom. Through the hallway. Into the bedroom.

I threw her on the bed.

Her body hit the silk sheets. The impact sent a ripple through her flesh — her breasts spreading, her belly softening, her thighs bouncing. Her whole body was a canvas — covered in ink, the notation wrapping around her like a second skin. She looked like a living grimoire. A spell made flesh.

She lay there. Legs tangled. Arms splayed. Her bare pussy — freshly shaved, swollen, dripping — visible between her thighs. Her nipples — stiff, leaking milk — pointed at the ceiling. Her glasses sat askew on her nose. Her hair fanned across the pillow.

I stood at the foot of the bed. My cock — hard, ready, the head leaking pre-cum — hung between us. The visual was clear. A naked man. A naked woman. A bed. The formula covering her skin like a map.

"I would tell you the final step," I said. "But for that, you would have to please me."

She stared. Her ink-stained fingers gripped the sheets. "How? How can — how I — I can how I—"

She was confused. Lost. The academic brain, already overwhelmed, was trying to process the transition from formula to... whatever this was.

" Fulfill your wifely duty," I said. "I would only tell the secrets of the world to my wife."

She trembled. Her eyes went wide. Her lips parted. The word — wife — hit her like a physical impact. Her hands went to her face. Then dropped. Then went to her chest, covering her breasts. Then dropped again.

"I will do," she whispered. Her voice cracked. "I will do. I will be your wife. Please tell me."

Tears fell from her eyes. Not from sadness. From the overwhelming, all-consuming need — the intellectual need for the formula, the physical need for release, the emotional need for direction. She had spent her entire life in control — controlling her research, her career, her body, her emotions. And in one night, I had dismantled every wall she’d built.

"Spread your pussy," I said. "Legs apart."

She spread. Her thighs fell open. Her hands went to her pussy — her ink-stained fingers finding the swollen lips, pulling them apart. The pink interior opened — wet, glistening, the entrance clenching and releasing. Her clit — engorged, bare, freshly shaved — throbbed.

"Please," she said. "I will do anything."

I laughed. Crawled onto the bed. My hands found her knees — pushing them wider. My cock found her entrance. The head pressed against the slick, swollen lips.

The contact made her flinch. Her hands went to my shoulders. Her fingers — ink-stained, trembling — dug into my muscles.

"It’s tight and fresh, right?" I said.

She trembled. "Yes. It is."

I chuckled. "You’re my wife, right?"

She nodded. Her eyes met mine. Behind the fogged glasses, behind the tears, behind the academic mask, something else was there. Something raw. Something hungry.

"Yes," she said. "I am. I am your wife."