Chapter 799 - 798 - Preparing Mother-in-law for a Rough Pounding

Chapter 799: Chapter 798 - Preparing Mother-in-law for a Rough Pounding

The room was modest — larger than Vespera’s, but similar in style. Dark wood furniture. Enchanted windows. A bed — king-sized, heavy posts, silk sheets in deep burgundy. A vanity with a mirror. A wardrobe.

She stood in the center of the room. Her back to me. Her hands at her sides. Her breathing was audible — rapid, shallow, the breathing of a woman on the edge of a decision.

"I must tell you," she said. Her voice was thin. Careful. The voice of a woman constructing arguments in real-time. "That hole is not for sex. It is not designed for that purpose. The anatomy — the tissue is not elastic enough, the musculature is not—"

"Have you not had sex before? There."

She turned. Her face was crimson. "No. Of course not. Aldric — he never — we never—"

"Then you don’t know," I said. I stepped closer. "You don’t know what it feels like. You’re assuming it will hurt based on ignorance."

She stared at me. Her mouth opened. The academic reflex — the one she’d passed to her daughter, the compulsion to correct ignorance — fired behind her eyes.

"I — that is—"

"I can help you realize it," I said. Another step. "You might not even enjoy it. But you won’t know until you try."

She trembled. Her hands went to her dress. The motion was automatic — the gesture of a woman who had made her decision and was now executing it before her mind could talk her out of it.

"Please, mother-in-law," I said. The word — mother-in-law — rolled off my tongue. Warm. Intimate. The word of a man addressing a woman he desired, not a relative he respected.

She trembled. Her fingers found the buttons of her dress. She undid them — slowly, fumbling, the fabric loosening. The dress fell. One shoulder, then the other. The bodice slid down. She stepped out of it.

Her body.

Milky white skin — the same complexion as her daughter, but aged. Mature. The skin of a woman who had borne children, who had lived, who had softened with time. Her breasts were large — heavy, sagging under their own weight, the nipples dark, the areolas wide. They settled on her chest, the soft flesh spreading, the shape full and round despite the gravity. Her belly was soft — chubby, the gentle curve of a woman who enjoyed good food and didn’t apologize for it. Her hips were wide — wider than Vespera’s, the childbearing bones prominent, the flesh thick and soft. Her thighs were thick — genuinely thick, the kind that would squeeze a man’s hips and hold him in place. Her ass — round, full, heavy — was the kind that made dresses difficult and men stupid.

She wore a bra — white, practical, full-coverage. And panties — white cotton, stretched tight over her wide hips.

She walked to the bed. Sat on the edge. Her hands went behind her — one hand reaching back, spreading her ass cheek. The position was awkward — a woman who had never posed for a lover, who was doing what she thought was expected.

"Just do it fast," she said. Her voice was small. Scared.

I chuckled. Unzipped my trousers. Pushed them down. My cock — hard, ten inches, the head dark and swollen — sprang free. I pulled the shirt over my head. Dropped it.

She looked at me. At my body. At my cock. Her eyes went wide.

"What are you doing?" she said. "Why are you — I thought you would just—"

"Of course I should give it proper attention," I said. I walked toward her. "Go in my way."

I reached for her. My hand found her breast — the right one, heavy and warm, the soft flesh filling my palm. I groped. The tit yielded — pliable, soft, the nipple hardening against my hand. She gasped. Her body flinched.

"What are you doing, son-in-law? Wait. This is—"

I kissed her.

My lips found hers. The contact was electric — her mouth was warm, soft, the taste of tea and jasmine. She resisted. Her lips pressed together. Her hands pushed against my chest. But my tongue — persistent, skilled, the tongue of an incubus — found the seam of her lips and pushed through.

Her resistance crumbled. Her mouth opened. Her tongue — tentative, inexperienced, the tongue of a woman who had been kissed the same way by the same man for thirty years — met mine. The kiss deepened. Saliva gathered at the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin. Her eyes rolled.

My hand — still on her breast — squeezed. Pulled. Found the nipple through the bra fabric. Pinched. She moaned into my mouth. The sound was muffled — warm, wet, vibrating through our connected lips.

My other hand went down. Between her legs. Found her pussy — through the cotton panties, the fabric warm and damp. I rubbed. The heel of my palm pressed against her mound. My fingers found the seam of her lips through the fabric and dragged.

She gasped. Pulled away from the kiss. "Why are you doing—"

I pulled her bra off. The clasp was in the front — I found it, unhooked it, and the cups fell away. Her breasts spilled free. Heavy. Sagging. The nipples — dark, stiff, prominent — pointed at me. The soft flesh spread on her chest, the weight settling, the shape round and full.

I grabbed one. Squeezed. The flesh oozed between my fingers — soft, warm, yielding. I leaned down. Took the nipple in my mouth.

"I don’t want to make you feel pain," I murmured against her breast. "Drive what would hurt."

She cried. The sound was soft. Confused. The sound of a woman whose body was responding to stimuli her mind hadn’t authorized. "What does that—"

I sucked. Hard. The nipple stretched — pulled between my teeth, the flesh elongating, the breast lifting from her chest. Her back arched. Her hands found my head — not pushing, not pulling, just holding. Gripping.

"Ah — son-in-law — wait—"

I pulled. Her tit stretched — the nipple distended, the breast pulled taut. She cried out. Fell backward. Her body hit the bed, her thick frame bouncing on the mattress, her breasts settling on either side of her chest.

She lay there. Panting. Her thighs pressed together. Her panties — white cotton — were dark at the center. Wet. Soaked through.

I looked at her. At her thick body — the soft belly, the wide hips, the heavy thighs, the sagging breasts with their stiff, wet nipples. She was hot. Not in the way Vespera was hot — not the tight, academic, freshly deflowered kind of hot. This was different. Mature. Full. The kind of body that had been shaped by decades of living, of eating, of bearing children, of being touched by the same man in the same way for thirty years.

I was going to show her something new.

I flipped her. She gasped — the sudden movement disorienting her, her face pressing into the burgundy sheets. I lifted her hips. Her ass rose — round, full, heavy, the white cotton panties stretched tight across the swell. I could see the outline of her anal through the fabric — the tight, puckered opening, darker than the surrounding skin.

I pulled her panties aside. My thumb found the anal — the tight ring of muscle, warm against my digit. I spread it. The opening parted slightly — just enough to see the pink interior, the muscle clenching at the exposure.

She trembled. Her face was in the sheets. Her hands gripped the fabric.

I positioned my cock. The head — dark, swollen, leaking pre-cum — pressed against her anal. The contact made her flinch. Her thighs clenched.

"What — what are you—"