Chapter 814 - 813- Lonely Woman’s Cleaning Session

Chapter 814: Chapter 813- Lonely Woman’s Cleaning Session

She sucked his tail harder. Her eyes rolled. The taste, the sensation, the sounds of her daughter being fucked inches above her head. The combination was overwhelming. Her fingers, in her pussy, found the spot. The rough patch. The cluster of nerves that he’d taught her about. She pressed.

She orgasmed. Silently. The climax ripped through her, her body convulsing, her pussy clamping around her fingers, the fluid running down her wrist. She moaned. The sound, muffled by the tail in her mouth, was a soft whimper. The whimper of a woman who had learned to cum quietly. To cum without being heard. To take her pleasure in secret, in shame, in the dark space beneath a table while her daughter was being fucked above.

She remembered. This morning. Before Vespera woke. He had come to her. In the kitchen. She’d been cooking. Eggs. Toast. The same breakfast that now lay scattered across the dining table. He’d come up behind her. Lifted her skirt. Pulled down her panties. Fucked her against the counter. The pan, still on the stove, had sizzled. The eggs had burned. She’d screamed into a dish towel while his cock slammed into her, each thrust pushing her hips against the counter edge, the bruise still visible on her hip.

She’d loved it. Every second. The casualness. The possession. The way he’d taken her without asking, without preamble, without even a word. Just his hands on her hips and his cock inside her and the sizzle of burning eggs.

’I’m addicted. I’m a bitch. A breeding bitch. His breeding bitch.’

She sucked his tail. Her tears fell. Her fingers, still in her pussy, moved slower. The aftershocks rippled through her. She was crying. Moaning. Licking. All at once.

Above, Viktor lifted Vespera. His hands under her thighs, her legs wrapping around his waist. He held her. Koala carry. Her body, impaled on his cock, hung from him. Her arms around his neck. Her breasts against his chest. Her face in his shoulder.

He fucked her standing. Bouncing her on his cock. Each drop drove him deeper. Each rise pulled the walls along his shaft. Her body, suspended, was at his mercy. She screamed into his shoulder. Bit down. The pain, sharp and immediate, made him thrust harder.

Pah Pah Pah Pah PAAAH!

"AAANGH...!! ... HAAANGH...!! ... OUNGH...!! ... HIEEENGH...!! ... AH...!! ... I can’t... HAA... I can’t... AAANGH...!!"

He slammed. Final thrust. Deep. All ten inches. Her body seized. Her pussy clamped. The walls rippled. She squirted. The fluid, hot and thin, sprayed from around his cock. It ran down his balls. Down his thighs. Onto the floor. Onto the mother-in-law, who knelt beneath, her face pressed to his leg, her eyes rolled, her mouth full of tail.

He came.

The first rope, thick and hot, pumped into Vespera’s pussy. She screamed. Her head rolled back. Her eyes vanished behind the whites. Her body convulsed. The second rope. The third. Each one filling her, the heat spreading through her core. Her pussy clamped down. The walls milked. The cum, pumping and flowing, filled her completely.

She poured. Pussy juices, mixed with cum, ran down his shaft. Down his balls. Down his thighs. The fluid dripped. Onto the floor. Onto the mother-in-law’s face. The thick, white seed, mixed with the clear juice, landed on the mother’s cheek. Her lips. Her tongue.

She licked. The mother-in-law, her face wet with her daughter’s juices and her son-in-law’s cum, licked what she could reach. Her tongue, extended, found his thigh. She licked the fluid from his skin. The taste, salty and sweet and musky, filled her mouth. She swallowed. Her eyes rolled. Her hand, still in her own pussy, moved faster.

Viktor walked. Holding Vespera. His cock still inside her. Her body, limp and trembling, hung from him like a ragdoll. He walked away from the table. Away from the mother-in-law. Through the dining room. Toward the stairs.

"You need to go to the academy, right?" he said. His voice was calm. Steady. The voice of a man who had just fucked his wife on a dining table while his mother-in-law sucked his tail underneath. "Let me give you a good bath."

She moaned. The sound was weak. Barely a whisper. The moan of a woman whose voice had been destroyed by screaming. Her head lolled against his shoulder. Her arms, around his neck, tightened. Her legs, around his waist, locked.

He carried her up the stairs. His cock, still inside her, shifted with each step. The motion, the gentle bouncing, the subtle friction, kept her in a state of continuous, low-level orgasm. She gasped with each step. Her pussy, clenching and releasing, milked him with every movement.

He disappeared around the corner. The bedroom door opened. Closed.

The dining room was empty.

The mother-in-law knelt on the floor. Alone. The table, above her, was a wreck. Spilled tea. Scattered fruit. Shattered ceramic. The evidence of what had just happened.

She stayed there. On her knees. Her hands on the floor. Her body, naked and marked, trembling. Her face, wet with tears and cum and her daughter’s juices. Her pussy, empty and aching, dripped. The fluid, her own arousal mixed with the residue of the morning’s fucking, ran down her thighs.

Slowly, she stood. Her legs, weak and sore, protested. She gripped the table edge. Pulled herself up. Her body, heavy and thick, rose. Her breasts, saggy and full, hung low on her chest. The nipples, dark and stiff, leaked thin trails of milk. Her belly, soft and round, pooched over her pubic mound. Her pussy, hairy and swollen, was red. The lips, puffy and spread, gaped slightly. The interior, pink and wet, was visible. The clit, engorged and bare, throbbed.

She looked at her pussy. At the seed, white and thick, leaking from the entrance. Her fingers went down. Touched. The fluid, warm and slippery, coated her fingertips. She brought them to her mouth. Licked.

The taste. Salty. Musky. Him. Her son-in-law. The man who had been fucking her all day. The man who had fucked her daughter on the table above her head while she sucked his tail beneath.

She was embarrassed. The flush, violent and immediate, spread from her cheeks to her neck to her chest. Her hand, still at her mouth, trembled. She looked at her fingers. Wet. Shining. The evidence of her addiction.

She moved toward her room. Through the hallway. Her bare feet, cold on the stone, left wet footprints. The trail of fluids, from her pussy and her tears and the cum on her face, marked her path. She walked like a woman in a trance. A woman who had been broken and rebuilt and broken again.

She entered her room. Closed the door. The room was dark. The curtains drawn. The bed, still unmade from the night before, the sheets stained and tangled. The mirror, still fogged, still bearing the residue of yesterday’s session.

She poured water. From the basin on the vanity. The water, cold and clean, hit her skin. She gasped. The shock of cold against her overheated body. She poured more. Over her shoulders. Her chest. Her breasts. The water ran down her body, carrying with it the dried sweat, the dried cum, the evidence of the last twenty-four hours.

She cleaned her pussy. Her fingers, gentle and thorough, explored the swollen flesh. The lips, puffy and tender, ached under her touch.

The entrance, still slightly gaping, leaked a mixture of fluids. Her own arousal. His cum.

The combination, thick and white, ran from her opening.