Chapter 811 - 810- Mother-in-law is his Secret Bitch

Chapter 811: Chapter 810- Mother-in-law is his Secret Bitch

Vespera opened her eyes.

The ceiling was white. Familiar. The crack in the plaster ran from the corner to the center, the same crack she’d seen every morning for twenty years in this room. The pillow beneath her head smelled like lavender and something else. Something musky. Something thick and warm and unmistakably male.

She blinked. The haze of sleep clung to her brain like cobwebs. Her body ached. Not the ache of illness or exertion. A different ache. Deeper. The ache of muscles that had been pushed past their limits, of joints that had been bent into positions they’d never known, of skin that had been rubbed raw in places that hadn’t been touched in years.

’What happened?’

The memories surfaced slowly. Fragments first, then waves, then a tsunami that crashed through her consciousness with devastating clarity. The magic circle. The glowing runes. The blindfold. Her mother’s body beneath hers. The warmth. The milk. The cock. The screams.

’Oh gods.’

She sat up. The motion was violent, her spine straightening, her abdominal muscles screaming in protest. The thin white bedsheet, the only covering on her body, pooled at her waist. Her breasts, heavy and full, were exposed. The nipples, dark pink and swollen, bore teeth marks. Small, crescent-shaped indentations that throbbed when the air hit them. Dried seed, white and flaky, clung to her inner thigh. Her pussy, bare and freshly shaved, was swollen. The lips, puffy and reddened, ached with a deep, pulsing soreness that radiated into her pelvis.

Her hands went to her chest. Covering herself. The gesture was instinctive. The gesture of a woman who had woken up in a body that had been used and needed, desperately, to pretend it hadn’t.

"Where is he?" she whispered. Her voice was hoarse. Raw. The voice of a woman who had been screaming for hours. "Viktor?"

No answer. The room was empty. The bed beside her was rumpled, the sheets twisted, the pillow dented. He’d been there. He’d slept beside her. And now he was gone.

She stood. Or tried to. Her legs buckled. Her thighs, thick and sore, trembled beneath her weight. She grabbed the bedpost. Held on. The room swam. Her vision blurred, then cleared.

’It was a dream. It was a bad dream. A nightmare. None of it was real. The magic circle. The ceremony. Mother and I and him and... it was a dream.’

She pulled the bedsheet from the mattress. Wrapped it around herself. The thin fabric did little to conceal her body. Her breasts, heavy beneath the white cloth, were visible in silhouette. Her nipples, stiff from the morning air, poked through the fabric. The sheet draped over her hips, clinging to the curve of her ass, the fabric translucent where it pressed against her skin.

She walked. Barefoot, unsteady, her hand on the wall for support. Through the bedroom door. Into the hallway. The floor was cold beneath her feet, the stone sending shivers up her spine. She passed her mother’s room. The door was closed. She didn’t knock.

She reached the railing. The wooden balustrade that overlooked the ground floor. She gripped it. Looked down.

And there he was.

Viktor sat at the dining table. Alone. A plate of food in front of him. Eggs, bread, preserved fruit. A cup of tea, steaming. He wore a fresh shirt, clean, the collar open. His hair was combed. His posture was relaxed. He ate with one hand, the other resting on the table. He looked, for all the world, like a man who had slept peacefully and woken up refreshed.

He looked up.

Their eyes met.

Vespera’s breath caught. The flush, instantaneous and total, spread from her cheeks to her neck to her chest. The sheet, already thin, did nothing to hide it. She looked away. Looked back. Looked away again.

Viktor waved. A casual gesture. The wave of a man greeting his wife over breakfast. As if nothing had happened. As if last night had been nothing more than sleep.

She whispered something. Not a word. A sound. A small, strangled exhale that carried the weight of a woman whose entire understanding of reality had been called into question. She rubbed her forehead. It hurt. A dull, throbbing ache behind her eyes, the kind that came from dehydration and exhaustion and the cognitive dissonance of trying to reconcile a dream with a memory.

’Was it a dream? It must have been. A nightmare. A fever dream, brought on by the stress of the ceremony and the mana transfer and the...’

But the teeth marks on her nipples were real. The dried seed on her thigh was real. The ache in her pussy, deep and raw and undeniable, was real.

She swallowed. Gave a small nod. The gesture was stiff. Automatic. The nod of a woman operating on autopilot while her brain ran emergency diagnostics.

"Where is mother?" she asked. Her voice carried down from the landing. Still hoarse. Still raw.

Viktor looked up from his plate. Chewed. Swallowed. "Ah, she went somewhere out." He picked up his tea. Sipped. "Do you want to come here? Have something to eat? Come on."

"No," she said. "It’s fine."

"I would be angry if you did not come to eat."

The words were light. Teasing. The tone of a husband playfully scolding his wife. But the effect on Vespera was nuclear. Her lips trembled. Her eyes, already wet, glistened. The sheet clutched in her fingers tightened, her knuckles going white.

’It was a dream. It was a dream. It was a dream. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember. He slept through it. The ceremony, the magic, the... mother... it was all in my head. A side effect of the mana transfer. A hallucination. A...’

She didn’t believe it. Not really. But she wanted to. Desperately. With every fiber of her being, she wanted to believe that the man sitting at the dining table, casually eating eggs and drinking tea, had not done what she remembered him doing. To her. To her mother. To both of them.

She walked down the stairs.

The descent was careful. Each step measured, her hand on the railing, her bare feet finding each tread with precision. The sheet trailed behind her like a wedding dress train. Her body, beneath the thin fabric, was a roadmap of the night. Bite marks on her neck. Hickeys on her collarbone. Reddened skin on her inner thighs. The dried seed, flaking with each step, falling from her skin like snow.

She reached the ground floor. The dining room. The table, set for one. Viktor’s plate. Viktor’s tea. Viktor’s casual, relaxed, impossibly normal presence.

She stood at the edge of the table. Looking at him. Looking at the food. Looking everywhere except at the space beneath the table.

Because beneath the table, hidden by the dark wood and the white tablecloth that draped to the floor, the mother-in-law was on her knees.

Her eyes were rolled back. The whites showing. Tears streamed from the corners, running down her cheeks, dripping from her jaw onto the floor. Her mouth was full. Stretched. Wrapped around Viktor’s cock, the shaft buried in her throat, the bulge visible through her neck. Her hands were on his hips. Her fingers, soft and trembling, dug into his muscles. She pushed. Tried to pull away.

The gag reflex fired, her throat convulsing around the head, the contraction squeezing, milking.

Viktor’s hand, beneath the table, was on the back of her head. His fingers tangled in her hair. He pulled. Pushed.

The rhythm was controlled, deliberate, the pace of a man who was receiving a blowjob while maintaining a perfectly normal conversation with his wife upstairs.