nownovels Chapter 504 - 503- Sorry~
Chapter 504 - 503- Sorry~
Behind him.Her face found his balls — the I-know-what-I’m-doing-here press of her lips against them, the warm, comprehensive, thorough attention of a woman who has been watching for ten minutes and has decided to make up for it, sucking and licking with hungry, wet sounds.
Her tongue.
Finding the base of his shaft where Eliantra’s throat was still working, tracing the stretched outline of his cock bulging through the older woman’s neck.
He exhaled.
Long. Slow. The satisfied exhale of a man who has two women and is not experiencing any complaints about this.
He pulled out of Eliantra’s throat.
The full, wet, immediate, dramatic withdrawal — Eliantra’s gasp coming instantly, the deep, ragged, finally-air gasp of a woman who has been conducting her respiratory needs through very limited means and is now settling accounts, strings of thick saliva connecting her lips to his glistening cock.
She sagged.
Her hands caught the floor.
Her chin dripped.
Her breasts hung forward, heavy, the nipples dripping their slow, continuous milk onto the stone in audible plips.
He looked at both of them.
"Together," he said.
Rihana understood immediately.
Eliantra, still catching her breath, looked at Rihana.
At the horns.
At the mirror across the room where the second pair of horns was visible — Sofia, on the floor of the dormitory, holding Elena down, her own gold horns blazing with shared arousal.
Eliantra looked back at Rihana.
Rihana pressed her lips to the head of his cock.
And held it there.
Waiting.
Looking at Eliantra.
’Come on,’ the look said. ’You know how this goes.’
Eliantra closed her eyes.
Opened them.
Found the other side of him.
And both women — the Mistress of Hartfield County and the runaway slave breeded by him just few days ago — took him together, their tongues sliding wetly along his shaft, lips meeting in sloppy, mother-maid kisses around his throbbing meat.
He looked at the mirror.
At Elena.
Her face against the stone floor. Sofia’s arms around her. Both of them watching.
"Are you watching?" he said.
Elena’s response was immediate and comprehensive and contained several words he was fairly sure she hadn’t used in that combination before.
"I WILL KILL YOU, VIKTOR—"
"Hm."
He looked at his hand.
Back at Elena.
"Let’s mute you," he said. "I really want to focus."
He snapped his fingers.
A clean, mid-tier silencing enchantment he’d been carrying since the warehouse deployed without drama, without buildup, just the quiet, efficient application of something that does what it says.
Elena’s mouth kept moving.
No sound.
The everything-is-the-same-except-the-sound silence of a muted person — her expression unchanged, the fury unchanged, her mouth still forming the same words, now mixed with helpless, silent moans.
Just: quiet.
He appreciated the quiet.
"Bon appétit," he said.
To himself. To the room. To no one specific and everyone present.
He grabbed Eliantra.
The full, immediate, I-have-decided-the-next-thing grab of a man in motion — his hand finding her waist, pulling her forward. Eliantra’s cry cut off as she found herself going horizontal, her soaked, hairy cunt exposed and dripping visibly.
The floor.
Her back hit the stone with the flat, immediate impact of someone who has been placed rather than dropped — not cruel, just direct, this-is-where-we-are-now decisiveness of a man who has stopped asking about furniture.
Rihana stumbled back.
Her breasts did their thing — the full, warm, immediate jiggle of them as she caught herself, her hands finding the wall, her expression going from occupied to watching with the smooth transition of a woman who has learned to read which part of the situation she’s currently in, fingers plunging deeper into her own dripping folds.
Viktor spread Eliantra’s legs.
Just — found her thighs with both hands and pushed them apart with the flat, unhurried, this-is-not-a-question pressure of someone making space, revealing her swollen, leaking entrance.
Her panties.
Still technically present. The torn, stretched, milk-damp fabric of them was doing approximately nothing at this point — he ran his cock over the fabric, the crimson head pressing against the thin cloth over her entrance, smearing her juices. The warmth of him through the fabric made her hips do the involuntary, upward-toward movement of a body that has been instructed, begging shamelessly.
He found her breast with his other hand.
Gripped.
Squeezed.
"Nn~—" Eliantra’s sound. Small. Involuntary.
Her hairy cunt was visible through the stretched, damp fabric — the dark, honest proof of everything the last hour had been doing to her body, clit engorged and pulsing. The fabric was soaked through with the combined product of sustained arousal, milk, and everything else, her scent thick and musky in the air.
He pulled the fabric aside.
Ran the head of his cock through her slick, puffy folds.
She arched.
"Aaahh~—" The sound of it — the soft, I-didn’t-mean-to-make-that-sound quality of it, immediately followed by her jaw clenching and her eyes squeezing shut as her inner walls fluttered greedily.
Rihana had pressed herself against the wall.
Her hand was back between her own thighs, fucking herself openly now.
Watching.
He looked at the mirror one more time.
At Elena’s face.
At the tears on Elena’s face.
At the this-is-the-one-that-breaks-something tears of a woman watching her mother on the floor with her legs spread —
He slammed in.
"AAANGHH~!!"
The full, immediate, comprehensive cry of Eliantra Westing’s pussy receiving nine inches at full depth in a single stroke — the hairy entrance stretched completely in one motion, the walls of her clenching instantly around the intrusion with the tight, surprised, involuntary grip of something that was not entirely ready, rippling and sucking him deeper as if her womb itself was pulling him in —
PAH!
"HIIEEK~!!"
His pubic bone was against hers.
His weight pressed her into the floor.
Her legs — he hadn’t let them close; his body between them kept the spread, mating-press geometry of a man who has put a woman on the floor and intends her to stay there, folding her mature body in half —
Her breasts.
The full, heavy impact of them against his chest as he lay over her — the warm, comprehensive press of them, the milk running between their bodies in thin, warm streams, the nipples dragging against his skin with each breath, painting them both in her forced milk —
PAH! PAH!
"AAAHH~!! TOO DEEP~!! IT’S TOO—"
Her hands found his back.
Not to push.
To hold.
The involuntary, comprehensive, entirely-without-her-permission grip of Eliantra Westing’s hands finding Viktor’s back and holding on — the body-has-decided response of a woman who is on the floor with nine inches inside her and has concluded that clinging is the correct response, nails raking red lines down his skin.
Her nails.
Found skin.
PAH! PAH! PAH!
"HNGH~!! AAANGHH~!! PLEASE~!! MY PUSSY~!! IT’S—"
Her voice broke on every thrust.
Her eyes — finding the mirror.
Finding Elena’s face in it.
The unbearable, mother-daughter, specific eye contact of a woman being mating-pressed on her own bedroom floor while her daughter watches from a dormitory three cities away, her cunt gushing around him in shameful orgasm.
"Elena—" Her voice, broken, between thrusts. "I—I’m sor—"
PAH!
"AAANGHH~!!"
"—ry~—"
Elena was not making sound.
The muting enchantment had seen to that.
But her face.
Her face was doing everything sound usually carries — the comprehensive, nothing-held-back expression of a woman who has lost access to her primary outlet and whose face is therefore carrying the full, uncompressed weight of everything she had been putting into her voice, cheeks burning with humiliated heat.
Her mother.
On the floor.
The legs spread. The man above her. The visible, undeniable architecture of what was happening — the thrust of his hips, the jiggle of her mother’s breasts with each impact, the sounds her mother kept making, the wet squelching of a drenched, hairy cunt being claimed —
PAH! PAH!
"AAAHH~!! AAAHNNG~!! TOO GOOD~!! IT’S TOO—"
’Too good.’