Chapter 815 - 814- Son-in-Law is a Beast

Chapter 815: Chapter 814- Son-in-Law is a Beast

She looked at herself in the mirror. The fog, partially cleared by the water, revealed her reflection. A thick woman. Mature. Naked. Her body, covered in marks. Bite marks on her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. Hickey trails down her stomach. Reddened handprints on her ass. The evidence of a man who had used her body like a canvas.

Her pussy, cleaned but still swollen, was visible in the mirror. The lips, puffy and spread, were reddened. The flesh, raw from hours of fucking, throbbed. Her clit, engorged and bare, peeked from its hood. The entrance, slightly gaping, leaked a thin trail of fluid that she hadn’t been able to clean.

Her ass, thick and round, bore the marks of his hands. Red welts, in the shape of fingers, crossed both cheeks. She leaned forward. Spread one cheek. Her anal, still slightly gaping, was visible. The pink interior, the muscle relaxed and raw, twitched under her touch.

She trembled. The sensation, the involuntary clench of her anal, reminded her of what he’d done. How he’d filled her. How he’d stretched her. How he’d made her scream.

She sighed. Her hand went to the wardrobe. She needed clothes. Something to wear. Something to hide behind. Something that would make her feel like a countess again, not a breeding bitch.

She opened the wardrobe. Reached for a dress. Her hand found the fabric. She pulled it from the hanger.

The door swung open.

She gasped. The sound was sharp, high, the gasp of a woman caught naked in her own bedroom. Her hands flew to her chest, covering her breasts. Her body, wet and marked, was exposed. She turned.

Viktor stood in the doorway. His shirt, the same one he’d worn at breakfast, was open. His trousers, zipped but loose, hung low on his hips. His cock, the outline visible through the fabric, was half-hard. His violet eyes, glowing faintly, found hers.

"What are you doing here?" she said. Her voice was strangled. High. The voice of a woman whose heart had just stopped. "Go. Go. Go to my daughter. Where is she?"

He closed the door. The latch clicked. The sound was quiet. Final. The sound of a door that would not be opened again.

"She is preparing to leave for the academy," he said. His voice was calm. Conversational. The voice of a man discussing logistics. "You know your daughter. Too much. She leaves her husband even before..."

"Go away," she said. Her voice was firm. The countess voice. The voice that had commanded servants, hosted nobles, maintained a household for thirty years. "Don’t come here. I don’t want..."

She stopped. Her mouth, open mid-sentence, closed. Her jaw worked. The words she wanted to say, the refusal, the rejection, the firm boundary, all died in her throat. Because the emotion that was rising inside her was not anger at his presence.

It was jealousy.

’He fucked me this morning. In the kitchen. Against the counter. He fucked me yesterday. All day. For hours. He made me cum. He made me squirt. He made me drink his seed. And now he’s going to her. To my daughter. Giving her baths. Fucking her. Making her scream.’

’I’m jealous. I’m jealous of my own daughter.’

’He is her man. Not mine. He is my son-in-law. Not my husband. He belongs to her. His cock belongs to her. His seed belongs to her. I am... I am the side. The secret. The one beneath the table.’

Her eyes stung. The tears, hot and sudden, filled her eyes. She turned away. Covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook.

’I hate this. I hate him. I hate what he’s done to me. I hate that I want more. I hate that I’m standing here, naked, covered in his marks, and all I can think about is his cock. His hands. His mouth. I hate that I’m jealous of my own daughter for having him when I want him.’

She trembled. Her back was to him. Her thick body, wet and marked, was visible from behind. The curve of her spine. The dimples above her ass. The red welts on her cheeks. The bite marks on her shoulders.

He moved. Silent. His feet, bare on the stone, made no sound. He was behind her. She felt him before she heard him. The warmth of his body, radiating against her back. The scent of him, musky and male, filling her nostrils.

His arms went around her. From behind. His hands found her stomach. Pulled her against him. Her back pressed against his chest. His cock, half-hard through the fabric of his trousers, pressed against her ass.

She trembled. The contact, the warmth, the possessive grip of his arms, sent a wave of heat through her body. Her skin, already flushed, reddened further. Her nipples, stiff beneath her covering hands, ached.

His hand moved. From her stomach. Upward. Over the curve of her belly. Over the soft flesh of her ribcage. To her breast. He groped. The soft tissue yielded under his palm. His fingers sank into the flesh. The breast, heavy and full, overflowed his hand. The nipple, dark and stiff, pressed against his palm.

She cried. The sound was soft. The cry of a woman whose resistance was crumbling. Whose jealousy was turning to need. Whose anger was melting into desire.

His other hand moved. Down. Over her hip. Over the curve of her thigh. Between her legs. His fingers found her pussy. The lips, swollen and wet, parted for him. She tried to clench her thighs. Tried to close them. The instinctive reaction, the last defense.

He pushed. Two fingers. The walls parted. The entrance yielded. The fingers slid in, the passage slick and hot. She moaned. Her head fell back against his chest. Her hands, covering her breasts, dropped. Her body, surrendered, went limp against him.

"How dare you?" she whispered. Her voice was broken. The words came out in fragments, each one separated by a moan, by a gasp, by the involuntary clench of her pussy around his fingers. "Aren’t we having an affair?"

He bit her ear. The lobe, soft and sensitive, between his teeth. The pain was sharp. Immediate. The sensation traveled from her ear to her neck to her spine to her pussy. She gasped.

"Stop. Don’t." Her voice was a whisper. "You’re not my man."

His hand, on her breast, squeezed. The milk, thin and sweet, leaked from the nipple. The fluid ran over his fingers, down her breast, across her belly. He leaned. His mouth found the curve of her neck. He sucked. The skin, soft and warm, flushed beneath his lips. The hickey formed. Dark red. The mark of possession.

His cock, hardening through the fabric, pressed against her thigh. The head, thick and hot, pushed against the soft flesh. He shifted. The shaft, freed from the trouser fabric, slid between her thighs. The head, slick with pre-cum, emerged from between her legs. Visible in the mirror. The dark, swollen tip, pressing against her pussy from behind.

She saw it. In the mirror. The reflection, clear and devastating. His cock, between her thighs, the head pressing against her pussy lips. Her own body, bent slightly forward, her ass pressed against his pelvis. Her breasts, heavy and leaking, hanging from her chest.

"What are you?" she gasped. "You’re a beast."