Chapter 832 - 831- Mother-in-Law loves his Cock

Chapter 832: Chapter 831- Mother-in-Law loves his Cock

Her internal thoughts raced. The academic mind, the one that analyzed and categorized and explained, fired. The wife mind, the one that watched her husband stand beside her half-naked mother, raged. The two minds warred.

Viktor, watching her face, saw the confusion. He reached over. His hand found the mother-in-law’s wrist. Pulled. The mother-in-law, who had been standing with her face down, her eyes on the ground, her body trembling with the internal storm of guilt and shame and arousal, moved. Toward him. Automatically. The response, conditioned by hours of use, was instant.

He groped her ass. Over the short skirt, his hand found the cheek. Squeezed. The flesh, thick and soft, yielded. She gasped. Her body, reacting, arched. Her hips, tilting toward him, presented herself. Her blouse, already loose, shifted. The fabric, damp from the milk that leaked continuously from her stimulated breasts, darkened further.

She trembled. Her eyes, wet and wide, looked at him. At her daughter. At the space between them.

’He is doing this in front of her. In front of my daughter. He is groping me in front of Vespera. And I am... I am letting him. I am not stopping him. I am not pushing him away. I am...’

"Can you see?" Viktor said. His voice was directed at Vespera. His hand, still on the mother-in-law’s ass, squeezed again. "She needs me."

Vespera trembled. Her hands, at her sides, clenched. The fists, white-knuckled, shook.

"How can I do this to my mother?" she whispered. The words were not a question. They were a lament. "My mother too. Why you did that. Why..."

She trembled. The tears, hot and sudden, filled her eyes. She didn’t wipe them. She let them fall.

Viktor said nothing. He turned. Walked toward the castle doors. The mother-in-law, on the rope, followed. Her bare feet, cold on the stone steps, left wet prints.

"Let us talk inside," he said. The words, thrown over his shoulder, were casual. An invitation to a conversation that was not a conversation.

He led them to the kitchen. The room, large and stone-walled, was the domain of servants and cooks. At this hour, it was empty. The hearth, cold, waited for the first fire of the day. The table, long and wooden, waited for the first meal.

He seated them. Vespera on one side. The mother-in-law on the other. Both women, silent and trembling, sat.

He cooked.

The motion, practiced and efficient, was unexpected. He moved through the kitchen with the ease of a man who had cooked before. Eggs from the cold store. Bread from the pantry. Preserves from the jar. Tea, steeped with herbs from the windowsill. The pan, heating on the stove, sizzled.

Vespera watched. Her mouth, open to argue, closed. The argument, the protest, the denunciation she had prepared, dissolved. Because the smell, the aroma of eggs and butter and fresh bread, was filling the kitchen. And it was delicious.

He served. Plates, placed before each woman. Eggs, scrambled with herbs. Bread, toasted and buttered. Preserves, spooned into small dishes. Tea, poured into cups.

The mother-in-law ate. Her hands, trembling, lifted the fork. The food, entering her mouth, made her eyes close. The taste, simple and perfect, was the taste of a meal made by hands that knew what they were doing.

Vespera ate. Despite herself. Despite the fury and the confusion and the tears. She ate. The food, hot and delicious, settled in her stomach. The warmth, spreading through her body, was grounding.

They finished. The plates, empty, sat on the table. The cups, drained, were set aside.

Vespera looked at him. Her eyes, still wet but steadier, found his.

"Now tell," she said.

Viktor leaned back. His chair, tilted on two legs, balanced. His hands, behind his head, were relaxed. His posture, casual and unbothered, was that of a man about to deliver news.

"You cannot satisfy me," he said. The words, flat and direct, fell like stones. "I need more women to fuck."

The silence that followed was nuclear.

Vespera’s face, which had been wet and confused, went hard. The flush, the one that had been from the food and the warmth, became the flush of rage.

"Don’t blame your decency, your vulgarity on others!" she shouted. Her voice, raw and loud, echoed through the kitchen. "How dare you? How dare you say that to me? To my face? In front of my mother?"

Her voice trembled. The tremor, the one that undermined the anger, was the tremor of a woman who was not just angry but afraid. Afraid because the words, however crude, however cruel, carried a truth she had been avoiding.

He looked at her. His violet eyes, steady and calm, held hers. The gaze, patient and unyielding, was the gaze of a man who had said what he meant and meant what he said.

"Stand up and come here," he said.

"How dare you?" she repeated. The words, weaker this time, were less a protest and more a delay.

He turned. Toward the mother-in-law. "Stand up and come here."

The mother-in-law heard. The same words. The same command. But directed at her, not at her daughter.

She stood. Her body, moving before her mind could object, responded. The conditioning, the hours of training, the repeated association of command and compliance, fired. She walked around the table. Stood before him.

He pulled her onto his lap. She sat. Automatically. Her hips, settling on his thighs, found their place. Her body, fitting against his, was the fit of a woman who had been in this position many times.

She felt his cock, hard through his trousers, pressing against her ass. She felt his hand, on her hip, steadying her. She felt his chest, against her back, warm and solid.

"What are you doing, mother?" Vespera said. Her voice, high and sharp, cracked. The sight of her mother, sitting on her husband’s lap, was the sight that shattered the last barrier of denial.

"This is the difference," Viktor said. His hand, on the mother-in-law’s hip, squeezed. She gasped. "You do not listen to me. But she does."

His hand moved. From her hip. Upward. Over her belly. To her blouse. He grabbed the fabric. Pulled. The blouse, already loose, gave way. Her breasts, heavy and full, fell free. The nipples, dark and stiff, leaked thin trails of milk.

"She lets me fuck her whenever I want," he said. His voice was calm. Conversational. The voice of a man comparing two products and finding one superior. "But you? You do not. I am a man, Vespera. I have desires. I have needs. I have..."

"You are manipulating me," Vespera whispered. The words, torn from her throat, were the words of a woman who recognized the tactic. "You are using guilt. You are using my mother. You are..."

"I am telling the truth," he said. "Your mother was dying. Aging. Withering. Her mana was depleting. Her body was failing. I gave her what she needed. My seed. My energy. My mana. And look at her."

He grabbed the mother-in-law’s breast. Squeezed. The milk, arcing from the nipple, hit the table. The white fluid, thin and sweet, pooled on the wood.

"Does she look like she is dying?" he asked.