Chapter 820 - 819- Painted her Womb White

Chapter 820: Chapter 819- Painted her Womb White

The commentary, whispered and muttered, reached the mother-in-law’s ears. Each word, each observation, each crude assessment of her body and her pleasure and her degradation, added fuel to the fire. The heat, already unbearable, blazed higher. Her pussy, clenching and releasing, was a faucet. The fluid, running down her thighs, pooled at her feet. The milk, arcing from her nipples, created a white curtain around her.

She orgasmed. Again. And again. Each climax, triggered by the thrust, by the words, by the eyes, by the overwhelming totality of her exposure, hit like a wave. Her body convulsed. Her pussy clamped. Her anal, above, twitched and clenched. Her breasts, swinging wildly, sprayed milk in unpredictable patterns.

"Your skin is so clean and milky white," one man said, louder now. "Are you some kind of noble woman?"

The question, directed at her, pierced the haze of pleasure. She opened her eyes. Looked at the man. At his face, scarred and dirty and hungry. At his eyes, locked on her body.

She couldn’t answer. Her mouth, open and gasping, could only produce sounds. Moans. Whimpers. The broken, animal sounds of a woman being fucked past the point of language.

"Isn’t she a slave then?" another voice asked. "Watching her collar."

The collar. The leather around her neck. The rope, leading to Viktor’s hand. The symbols of ownership, of subjugation, of a woman reduced to property. The crowd saw the collar and saw a slave. Saw the skin and saw a noble. The contradiction, the impossibility, the taboo of a noble woman collared and fucked in a slum, was driving them insane.

Viktor slammed. Hard. The final thrusts, deep and brutal, drove the air from her lungs. Her body, impaled and suspended on his cock, seized. Her pussy clamped. Her anal clenched. Her breasts, swinging upward with each impact, hit her own chin.

Pah Pah Pah Pah Pah PAAAH!

"AAANGH...!! ... HAAANGH...!! ... OUNGH...!! ... HIEEENGH...!! ... AH...!!"

And then, a voice.

"I expected the one inquiring to be some mischievous guy. But who thought it would be some pervert fucking his slut here."

The voice was female. Clear. Firm. The tone of a woman who was not impressed. Not aroused. Not shocked. Just... disappointed. And filthy. The words carried a vulgarity that was not crude but precise. The vulgarity of a woman who had seen worse and found this particular display beneath her expectations.

The mother-in-law heard the word. Slut. The word, spoken by another woman, hit her like a physical blow. The shame, already at maximum, spiked. The orgasm, already building, crested. The combination of the degradation and the climax, hitting simultaneously, was devastating.

"AAAANGH...!!"

Her body convulsed. Her pussy clamped down on Viktor’s cock with crushing force. The walls rippled. The muscles contracted. The fluid, gushing, sprayed around his shaft. Her back arched. Her eyes rolled back. Her tongue, extended and limp, hung from her mouth. Her breasts, swinging wildly, sprayed milk in a final, massive arc that hit the wall, the tree, the ground.

Viktor slammed. One last thrust. Deep. All ten inches. The head, already in her womb, pushed deeper. The cock, thick and hard, throbbed. The cum, pressurized and ready, erupted.

He came.

Thick. Hot. Massive. Rope after rope of cum pumping into her pussy. Filling her. The heat spreading through her core. Her womb, already breached, accepted the seed. The walls, clenching and releasing, milked him. The cum, mixing with her own fluids, leaked from around his shaft. White and thick, running down her thighs. Down the tree. Onto the ground.

The mother-in-law, impaled and filled, screamed. The final orgasm, triggered by the heat of his cum, was total. Her body went rigid. Then limp. Her muscles gave out. Her mind went blank. The tantra state. The emptiness. The void.

But Viktor wasn’t looking at her.

He was looking at the voice.

The woman stood at the entrance to the alley. She wore a mask, similar to his, but hers covered the lower half of her face. Her hair was visible. Pink. Long. Streaked with gray. The combination, pink and gray, was unusual. Striking. The kind of hair that marked lineage, that spoke of bloodlines and heritage and things that ordinary people didn’t have.

Her eyes were visible above the mask. Pink and gray. The same colors as her hair. They were firm. Unwavering. The eyes of a woman who had seen things that would break most people and had come out the other side harder. Colder. More precise.

They looked at Viktor with vulgarity. With filth. With disappointment. The look of a woman watching a man fuck his mother-in-law in a slum and finding the display beneath her standards.

’Trash,’ the eyes said.

Viktor held her gaze. His cock, still inside the mother-in-law, still pumping the last ropes of cum into her pussy, throbbed. He didn’t pull out. Didn’t cover himself. Didn’t adjust. He stood, his cock buried in the woman bent over the tree, his cum filling her, his eyes locked on the stranger.

He slammed. One more thrust. The mother-in-law, already unconscious on the edge, gasped. Her pussy, clenching, squeezed another rope of cum from him. He pushed deeper. Filling her. His hips pressed against her ass, his balls tight against her pussy.

"Does it matter if I fuck my bitch here or there?" he said. His voice was calm. Conversational. The voice of a man discussing location preferences. "Isn’t this sight something familiar?"

He paused. Let the question hang.

"Your mother got railed like this, doesn’t she... Johana?"

The woman flinched.

The reaction was small. A micro-expression. A tightening of the muscles around her eyes. A slight backward shift of her weight. The reaction of a woman who had been named. Identified. Found.

’How does he know that name? How does he know about... that night?’

Her internal thoughts raced. The mask, the calm, the firm gaze, all wavered for a fraction of a second. The composure, hard-won and carefully maintained, cracked.

"So you knew about that night," she said. Her voice, despite the crack in her composure, was steady. Controlled. The voice of a woman who had practiced being calm under pressure. "As I thought. You were one of those pastors, weren’t you?"

Viktor chuckled. The sound was low. Warm. The chuckle of a man who found the accusation amusing.

He slammed his cock. One more thrust. The mother-in-law, limp and trembling, gasped. Her pussy, still clenching, still milking, drew another rope of cum from him. He reached forward.