Chapter 812 - 811- Vespera’s Nightmare to get fucked alongside her Mother

Chapter 812: Chapter 811- Vespera’s Nightmare to get fucked alongside her Mother

His tail, hidden beneath the tablecloth, was wrapped around the mother-in-law’s neck. The scaled appendage, prehensile and strong, held her in place. The grip was firm. Not choking. Controlling. The tail pulled her down onto his cock, held her there, pulled her back up. The motion was mechanical. Precise. The rhythm of a machine designed for pleasure.

The mother-in-law’s internal thoughts were chaos.

’No. No no no. She’s coming. She’s coming down the stairs. I can hear her footsteps. Stop. Stop it. Pull out. Let me go. She’ll see. She’ll see me here, on my knees, with his cock in my throat, and she’ll...’

’GLLMMPH.’

The gag. The wet, guttural sound of a throat being fucked. The sound was muffled by the tablecloth, by the wood, by the distance. But the mother-in-law heard it. Heard herself. The sound of her own degradation, echoing in the small space beneath the table.

’She can’t hear. She can’t. The table is solid. The cloth is thick. She can’t...’

’GLLMMPH. GLLMMPH.’

’Stop. Please. Not now. Not while she’s here. Not while my daughter is standing right there.’

Viktor pulled. His hand in her hair, his tail around her neck, both working in tandem. He pulled her down. Deep. Seven inches. Eight. The head pushed past the resistance, past the gag reflex, into the narrow passage of her throat. Her neck bulged. The outline of his cock, thick and veined, was visible through the skin.

She trembled. Her whole body shook. The tears fell faster. Her nose ran, the mucus mixing with the saliva, the fluids dripping down her chin, pooling on the floor between her knees. Her hands, on his hips, pushed. Weak. Futile. The push of a woman who was trying to maintain the fiction of resistance while her body surrendered completely.

’She’s here. She’s at the table. I can hear her voice. She’s asking where I am. He said I went out. He lied. He’s lying to her while I’m...’

’GLLMMPH.’

’...while I’m sucking his cock under the table like a... like a...’

She couldn’t finish the thought. The shame was too deep. The arousal was too strong. The two emotions warred inside her, each one feeding the other, the cycle of degradation and desire spinning faster and faster until she couldn’t tell them apart.

Vespera stood at the table. Looking at the empty plate across from Viktor. The chair, pushed in. The setting, untouched.

"What are you eating?" she asked. Her voice was small. Still hoarse. The voice of a woman trying to be normal while her world tilted on its axis.

Viktor laughed. The sound was warm. Genuine. The laugh of a man who found his wife’s morning confusion adorable.

He reached across the table. Grabbed her wrist. Pulled.

She cried out. The sudden motion, the strength in his grip, the casual dominance of the gesture. She stumbled forward. Her feet tangled in the sheet. She caught herself on the table edge. Her body, off-balance, fell forward. Her hands slapped the wood. The sheet, loosened by the movement, slipped.

He pulled her onto the table. Lifted her. Her body, wrapped in nothing but thin white fabric, landed on the wooden surface. The plates rattled. The tea cup trembled. The sheet bunched at her waist.

"What are you doing?" she gasped. Her voice was higher now. Alarmed. The voice of a woman who had just been manhandled onto a dining table.

He chuckled. Pulled the sheet down. The fabric slid from her shoulders, down her arms, catching at her elbows. Her breasts, freed from the thin covering, were exposed. Heavy. Full. The nipples dark pink, stiff, bearing the teeth marks from last night. The areolas, wide and dark, were textured with goosebumps from the morning air.

He groped. His hand found her right breast. Squeezed. The soft flesh yielded, the tissue pliant under his fingers. He kneaded. Pulled. The breast stretched, the nipple distending, the skin flushing under the pressure.

She cried. "What... how..."

Milk trickled. From the nipple. A thin, clear stream at first, then thicker. White. Warm. The letdown, triggered by the stimulation, by the pheromones, by the wife package that had transformed her body into a responsive system. The milk ran down his fingers, over his knuckles, dripping onto the table.

"I need something to drink," she said. The words were absurd. The context was obscene. She was lying on a dining table, her breast in his hand, milk leaking from her nipple, and she was asking for a drink.

He leaned down. Took the nipple in his mouth. Sucked.

She cried. Her hand went to his hair. Gripped. Not pushing. Not pulling. Holding. Her fingers, ink-stained and trembling, tangled in his dark hair.

"Wait..." she whispered. Her eyes, wet and wide, looked at the ceiling. At the chandelier. At anything that wasn’t the man sucking milk from her breast at the dining table.

Beneath the table, the mother-in-law heard everything. The cry. The gasp. The wet, rhythmic sound of sucking. Her daughter’s voice. Her daughter’s pleasure. Her daughter’s body being touched by the same hands that were, even now, holding her head in place on his cock.

’She’s right there. Right above me. My daughter. And I’m... I’m...’

’GLLMMPH.’

The tail pulled her deeper. The cock in her throat throbbed. The dual sensation of her own degradation and her daughter’s pleasure, separated by inches of wood, created a feedback loop of shame and arousal that was driving her insane.

Viktor sucked. The milk, sweet and warm, hit his tongue. He swallowed. The energy, the magical density of the wife package, flowed through him. His cock, buried in the mother-in-law’s throat, hardened further. The mother felt it. The swelling. The thickening. The head pushing deeper, the shaft stretching her throat wider.

He pulled back. Released Vespera’s nipple with a wet pop. The nipple, freed, was red and swollen. Stiff. Leaking a thin trail of milk that ran down the curve of her breast.

She gasped. Her chest heaved. Her hands, still in his hair, trembled.

"Why are you doing this?" she said. Her voice was barely a whisper. The voice of a woman whose defenses had been stripped, whose pretense of normalcy had been shattered by a mouth on her breast. "You know how dirty dreams I’m seeing."

He chuckled. "What kind of dream?"

She looked at him. Her eyes, wet and searching, found his. The violet eyes, glowing faintly, steady, calm. The eyes of a man who knew exactly what she was talking about and wanted her to say it.

"I saw you," she said. Her voice cracked. "With my mother. And I. I don’t..." She bit her lip. The gesture, unconscious, was the same one her mother made. The genetic inheritance, the shared tells, the tiny mannerisms that connected mother and daughter across generations.

"Will you hate me if that dream came true?"

The question was quiet. Gentle. The voice of a man offering a confession, seeking absolution. But the effect on Vespera was catastrophic.

Her thumb went to her mouth. She bit the nail. The nervous habit, the one she’d had since childhood, the one she’d never been able to break. Her eyes, wide and wet, searched his face for the lie. For the joke. For the cruelty.

"No," she said. "Stop. Don’t... don’t say that."