Chapter 816 - 815- Demand from Him

Chapter 816: Chapter 815- Demand from Him

He thrust. His hips moved. The cock, between her thighs, slid forward. The head, passing beneath her pussy, emerged from between her legs. The shaft, slick with her arousal, rubbed against her lips. The friction, the heat, the pressure against her clit, made her moan.

"Sit up," he said. "Let’s go to the capital. Aren’t you a noble woman?"

His fingers, still inside her pussy, curled. Found the spot. The rough patch on the front wall. The cluster of nerve endings that he’d mapped hours ago. He pressed.

She screamed. The sound, muffled by her own hand, which had flown to her mouth, was still audible. Her body convulsed. Her pussy clamped. The walls clenched around his fingers, the muscles contracting in rapid, involuntary pulses.

He fingered her. Hard. Fast. The rhythm was relentless. Two fingers, then three. The walls stretched. The entrance yielded. The fluid, hot and copious, ran down his hand, down her thighs, onto the floor.

He kissed her. His mouth found hers. His tongue pushed in. She resisted. Her lips pressed together. Her jaw clenched. The refusal, the final boundary, the last wall.

He pressed. His tongue, persistent and skilled, found the seam. Pushed through. Her mouth opened. Their tongues met. The kiss was desperate. Hungry. The kiss of two people who had been fighting their desire and had lost.

His hips moved. Up and down. The cock, between her thighs, slid back and forth. The shaft, rubbing against her pussy lips, the head emerging and disappearing with each thrust. The motion was obscene. The visual, in the mirror, was devastating.

She watched. Her eyes, wet and wide, followed the movement in the reflection. His cock, appearing and disappearing between her thighs. Her pussy, swollen and wet, being rubbed by the shaft. Her clit, engorged, pressed by the passing cock.

Her body went limp. The energy, the resistance, the will to fight, drained from her. She sagged against him. Her weight on his chest. Her hands at her sides. Her mouth, still kissed, still invaded by his tongue.

"What do you want from me?" she whispered. The words came out between kisses. Broken. Fragmented. The voice of a woman who had given up. "Why are you hurting me so much? I hate you. I hate you."

The tears fell. Down her cheeks. Down her chin. Onto his hand, still on her breast, still squeezing. The salt water mixed with the milk, the combination running down her stomach.

He pulled from the kiss. Looked at her. In the mirror, their reflection stared back. His violet eyes, glowing, calm. Her brown eyes, wet, broken. His body, lean and muscular, behind hers. Her body, thick and marked, in front.

"Do you want me that much?" he said.

She cried. The sob, deep and wrenching, shook her entire body. Her shoulders heaved. Her chest shuddered. Her belly quaked. The tears flowed freely, running down her face, dripping from her jaw.

"What have you done?" she gasped. "What have you done to me?"

She leaned up. Her mouth found his. She kissed him. Not the resistant, fighting kiss of before. This was surrender. This was confession. This was the kiss of a woman who had lost the war and was begging for mercy.

He kissed her back. His tongue found hers. His fingers, still in her pussy, moved faster. The rhythm increased. The pressure built. His hand on her breast squeezed, the milk flowing freely now, running down both their bodies.

Her tears, still falling, mixed with the kiss. The salt water, the saliva, the milk, all blending on their tongues. Her body trembled. Her pussy clenched. The walls gripped his fingers. The orgasm built.

"I want you so much," she whispered. The confession, spoken against his lips, between kisses, between sobs. "I want you. I want you. I want you."

He fingered her harder. The pace was brutal. Three fingers, four. The walls stretched. The entrance yielded completely. The fluid, gushing now, ran down his arm, her thighs, the floor. Her body convulsed. Her back arched. Her eyes rolled.

She squirted. The orgasm, massive and total, hit like a thunderclap. Her pussy convulsed. The muscles rippled. The fluid, thin and hot, sprayed from her entrance. It hit the mirror. Ran down the glass. The condensation, already thick, became opaque.

She collapsed. Against him. Her body, spent, trembling, hung from his arm. Her pussy, still clenching, still spasming, leaked. The aftershocks rippled through her. Each one a small, involuntary convulsion that made her gasp.

He pulled out. His fingers, wet and shining, emerged from her pussy. The fluid, thick and clear, ran from his fingertips. He brought them to his mouth. Tasted.

He smiled. The expression was warm. Genuine. The smile of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted.

"So," he said. "We go on a date? Mother-in-law?"

She looked at him. Her eyes, red and wet and swollen from crying, blinked. The tears still fell. Her lip trembled. Her body, limp and trembling, leaned against him for support.

"What?" she whispered.

He chuckled. The sound was soft. Warm. The chuckle of a man who found the situation, the absurdity, the sheer obscene magnificence of it all, genuinely amusing.

"But, mother-in-law," he said. His hand, still on her breast, squeezed gently. The milk, a thin trickle, ran over his fingers. "You have to wear a different dress for me."

She stared at him. At his face. At his eyes. At the smile that was equal parts charm and predation. At the man who had turned her world upside down in twenty-four hours. Who had fucked her daughter on a table above her head. Who had made her jealous. Who had made her confess. Who had made her cry and cum and confess all at the same time.

And she felt, beneath the shame and the tears and the horror, a warmth. A small, bright, terrible warmth. The warmth of a woman who had been seen. Who had been wanted. Who had been desired, not as a countess, not as a mother, not as a wife, but as a woman.

A different dress. For him. For a date.

She trembled.

’What am I doing? What am I becoming? What has he made me?’

She looked at the wardrobe. At the dresses, hanging in a row. At the variety of colors and fabrics and styles that she hadn’t worn in years. The wardrobe of a woman who had stopped caring about her appearance, who had settled into the comfortable invisibility of middle age.

A different dress.

For him.

She closed her eyes. Let the tears fall. Let the warmth spread.

’...Fine.’