Chapter 797 - 796- A MILF ready to be Worked Up

Chapter 797: Chapter 796- A MILF ready to be Worked Up

The words echoed from the hallway. Distant. Flustered.

I watched her go. My eyes traced the swing of her hips — the heavy, rhythmic motion of a thick woman moving fast. The visual lingered even after she vanished.

I sighed. Looked down.

My crotch bulged. The fabric of the borrowed trousers — already strained — tented outward. My cock, half-hard, pressed against the material. The shape was visible — the length, the girth, the unmistakable outline of an erection.

I stared at it.

"Fuck." The word came out flat. Honest. The word of a man confronting an uncomfortable truth. "I am trash to think about fucking my mother-in-law."

I stood there. In the doorway. In the silence. The carriage was gone. The servants were scattered. Vespera was elsewhere, managing affairs. The mother-in-law was hiding.

The bulge didn’t go down.

I adjusted myself. Shook my head. Walked back inside.

The mansion was quiet. The capital was waking up outside — the sounds of the city filtering through the walls. Cart wheels on cobblestone. Distant voices. The clang of a blacksmith.

I had come to the capital to become a professor at the Royal Academy. To access Vespera’s necromantic knowledge. To prevent a family’s execution. To position myself for the coming civil war.

I had accomplished all of it in one night. Plus deflowered a thirty-two-year-old academic prodigy, stolen her abilities through the breeding rebate, revealed my identity as the Katorian heir, and secured ten thousand soldiers for a county that couldn’t defend itself.

And now I was thinking about fucking my mother-in-law.

’Trash,’ I thought. ’Absolute trash.’

But the bulge remained. And my tail — hidden beneath the trousers — flicked lazily behind me, the tip occasionally brushing my own leg.

The incubus in me was always hungry.

’Let’s have fun then...’

I entered the room to find Vespera already dressing. Her movements were efficient — the practiced routine of a woman who had dressed for work ten thousand times. Blouse buttoned, skirt zipped, hair pinned, glasses adjusted. The ink stains on her fingers had been scrubbed away, leaving only the faintest shadows. She looked like the headmistress again. Composed. Professional. Untouchable.

My cock disagreed with that assessment entirely.

"Are you not going to stay?" I asked. The question came out casual, but the intent was anything but. My crotch — still bulging, still insistent, still operating on an incubus’s recovery timetable that had zero respect for academic schedules — pressed against the borrowed trousers. I wanted to fuck her again. At least once more before she left. The morning’s session in the bathtub had been appetizing, not satisfying. An appetizer when I needed a feast.

She looked at me. Her eyes — sharp, professional, the headmistress eyes — flickered downward. Found the bulge. Recognized it. Her cheeks went pink. She bit her lip — a gesture I’d learned to read over the past twelve hours. The bite meant she was considering. Weighing. The academic mind running a cost-benefit analysis on my cock.

"No," she said. "I actually need to visit the academy today. The tournament is being organized. I personally need to handle the documentation, the bracket assignments, the facility reservations." She paused. Adjusted her glasses. "I promise to return back as soon as possible."

She was biting her lip again. Looking at me. Her thick body — the professional clothes doing nothing to hide the wide hips, the heavy breasts, the soft belly that I’d written formulas across last night — shifted weight from one foot to the other. She wanted to stay. I could see it. The wife package was working — her body was responding to my proximity, her pheromone-saturated system craving more. But her mind — that stubborn, brilliant, disciplined mind — was winning the war.

For now.

I sighed. "It’s fine. Just come, complete the work so that you can take leave for two days. At least for me. Before I join the academy."

She trembled. The glasses slid down her nose. She didn’t push them up. "What? You’re going to join?"

"Of course." I leaned against the doorframe. Casual. The posture of a man delivering information that would change someone’s life. "You’re soon going to receive a letter from the Katorian family regarding accepting me as a professor there."

Her mouth hung open. The professional composure shattered like glass. "Like — really?"

She moved. Not walked — launched. Her thick body crossed the room in three steps, and she collided with me. Her arms wrapped around my neck. Her breasts — heavy, full, the nipples still stiff from the morning’s activities — pressed against my chest. Her hips — wide, soft — pressed against my thighs. My cock, trapped between us, throbbed against her stomach.

I gripped her ass. Both hands. Each cheek a handful and then some — thick, soft, the fabric of her skirt pulling tight as I squeezed. She gasped against my neck. Her fingers tightened in my hair.

I leaned close. My lips found her ear. The same ear I’d whispered formulas into last night, the same ear that had heard my cock driving into her throat this morning.

"I also want to fuck your ass," I murmured.

She trembled. Her entire body — every soft curve, every thick inch — shuddered against me. Her breath hitched. Her hands tightened on my neck.

"No," she said. "Not there."

She pulled back. Her face was flushed — but her expression was firm. The headmistress stare. The look that had cowed students, silenced colleagues, and intimidated noble lords. It was, I had to admit, devastatingly cute when directed at a man whose cock was currently pressed against her thigh.

"That is for excretion," she said. Primly. Clinically. The academic deploying terminology as a shield. "I am not going to let you do it."

I looked at her. She looked at me. The standoff lasted three seconds.

"You are disappointing me," I said.

"Nope," she said. The word was cheerful. Defiant. The response of a woman who had discovered, over the past twelve hours, that she could say no to me and survive. "That is for excretion. I am not going to let you do it."

She ruffled my hair. The gesture was maternal — unconscious, instinctive, the muscle memory of a woman who had probably ruffled her students’ hair when they were being difficult. Then she caught herself. Her hand withdrew. Her face went crimson.

"I will finish my work and try to get at least two days of vacation," she said. She turned. Walked toward the door. Her thick hips swayed with each step, the skirt pulling across her ass, the fabric straining. She paused at the threshold. Looked back. "Goodbye, husband."

"Goodbye, wife."

She left. The carriage waited outside. I heard the door, the horses, the wheels on cobblestone. The sound faded.

I stood in the empty room. My hand in my pocket. My cock — hard, insistent, entirely unsympathetic to Vespera’s professional obligations — strained against the fabric.

"Damn it," I muttered. "I just wanted to do it once. And I will."

I said the last part — the "I will" — at full volume. In the doorway. Facing the hallway.

Where the mother-in-law stood.

She’d been standing there. The whole time. Listening. Her hand was on the hallway wall, steadying herself. Her face — round, soft, pretty — was the color of a ripe tomato. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line.

The flush covered her entire face. Her neck. The visible swell of her chest above her neckline. She’d heard everything. The request. The rejection. The "I will."

"It’s fine, son-in-law," she said. Her voice was strangled. Too high. The voice of a woman trying desperately to normalize a conversation she should never have heard. "You shouldn’t be worried."