Chapter 20: Volume 1- [ - 21 ]
I pushed past the entrance.
The head popped inside with a soft, wet sound, and her pussy clamped around the crown like a fist, the inner walls gripping the ridge, fluttering with involuntary spasms.
I held there — just the tip, just as promised — and let her feel it. The stretch. The fullness. The heat of me inside her for the first time.
Then I pulled out. Slowly. The head emerged with a soft ’schlick’, trailing a string of her wetness that connected us in the candlelight.
She gasped. The sudden emptiness was almost worse than the fullness — her pussy clenched at nothing, the entrance gaping slightly, the inner walls visible for a moment, flushed and slick and trembling.
I pushed back in. Just the head. Past the entrance, past the grip, into the heat. Pulled out. Pushed in. A rhythm of just the tip — cockhead fucking, nothing more — and each entry drew a sound from her that was not quite a moan and not quite a cry but something in between, a wounded animal sound that rose and fell with each thrust.
"Ahhn — hahhh — please — it is — the stretching — I can feel every—’
I pulled out entirely. Looked down at her. Sweat beaded on my forehead, on my chest, on the planes of my stomach. My cock throbbed, the head glistening with her arousal, the shaft twitching with the need to drive deeper, to claim, to take. I was not a patient man by nature. But I was a patient man by design, because patience was the weapon that won wars, and I was fighting a war for this woman’s body and her husband’s dignity and the slow, sweet satisfaction of cuckolding a man who had stolen my father’s room and sneered at me in my own yard.
I climbed over her. My cock hovered above her face — thick, heavy, the head inches from her lips. I looked down at her and said, softly, with the earnest vulnerability of a young man laying his heart bare:
"I want to enter you. Not just the tip. All of you. Please."
Her eyes filled. "It will hurt."
"Can you not bear hurt for me?"
’Why — why does he say it like that — as if my pain matters to him — as if he needs me to choose him, to want him, to—’
She looked at my cock. At its size. At the impossible, ridiculous, hentai-proportioned dimensions of it. And then she looked at my face, and whatever she saw there — the amber eyes, the ash-grey hair, the expression she had chosen to read as vulnerability rather than calculation — made her internal voice whisper the words I had been waiting for:
’I am sorry, Garrick. I am sorry. But I need this. I need—’
She closed her eyes. "As you want."
I positioned myself between her legs. Angled my cock against her entrance. Pushed.
One inch. Her breath caught. Her fingers found my shoulders, gripping.
Two inches. A tremor ran through her thighs, through her belly, through the hands on my shoulders. "Hahh—"
Three inches. Her walls stretched around the shaft, the inner flesh parting, yielding, the heat and wetness increasing with each fraction of depth. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. "Nnngh — it is — it is so thick—"
Four inches. Her mouth opened. No sound came — just a silent, open-mouthed gasp, her chest heaving, her breasts rolling against my chest, the milk leaking freely now, warm and wet between our bodies.
Five inches. I stopped.
Her whole body was trembling. Tears fell from her eyes in steady streams, tracking the curves of her temples into her hair. Her pussy gripped me like a vice — hot, wet, clenching in rhythmic waves that she could not control, each spasm a small, involuntary orgasm that rippled through her walls and milked my shaft in a way that made my vision blur at the edges.
I pulled back. Slowly. And then I pushed in again, establishing a rhythm — five inches in, five inches out, a slow, rolling wave of my hips that moved with the patience of a tide. Not brutal. Not punishing. Not the way I had taken Martha, with violence and contempt. This was different. This was the fuck of a man who understood that the woman beneath him was not an enemy to be broken but a treasure to be claimed, and that the claiming would be sweeter if she chose it, if her body opened for him not from fear but from want.
I kissed her. My lips found hers in the candlelight, and the kiss was soft, deep, lingering — my tongue tracing the shape of her mouth, tasting the salt of her tears, swallowing the small, broken sounds she made with each thrust. My hand found her breast — the right one, heavy and leaking — and I kneaded it gently, my thumb circling the nipple, spreading the milk across the darkened skin in a thin, white sheen.
She cried out against my mouth. Her hands moved from my shoulders to my back, her nails pressing into the muscle, pulling me closer. Her hips — despite the belly, despite the awkwardness — began to move with me, rising to meet each thrust, a slow, grinding counterpoint that took me deeper than my intended five inches, her body overriding her caution with its own desperate need.
’He is so deep — I can feel him — in my stomach — no, lower — in my womb — the pressure is — it is hitting something — something that makes my vision go white—’
Five and a half inches. Six. Her body was taking more than I had intended to give, her pussy drawing me in with each clench, her walls rearranging themselves around my girth with a plasticity that the five months of abstinence had allowed. She was tight — gods, she was tight — but wet enough, warm enough, aroused enough that the stretch was pleasure disguised as pain, and the pain was pleasure disguised as protest, and the line between the two had dissolved entirely.
I kissed her forehead. Her nose. Her eyelids, tasting the salt. Her neck, the curve of her jaw. I kissed the swell of her breasts, the dark circles of her nipples, the valley of her cleavage where the milk had pooled. I kissed her belly — the taut, enormous dome of it, feeling the child stir beneath my lips — and she laughed through her tears, a sound so raw and tender that it cut through my calculation and touched something I had not expected to feel.
I kept my rhythm. Slow. Deep. Romantic in a way that was entirely strategic and yet not entirely false, because the body does not distinguish between performed tenderness and genuine tenderness when the skin is warm and the hands are gentle and the woman beneath you is looking at you with eyes that have forgotten their husband’s face.
"I did not want to marry him," she whispered, and the confession came unbidden, pulled from somewhere deep by the rhythm of my cock and the patience of my hands. "I wanted — I wanted to study. To read. To learn. My father said a knight’s wife was a good match. I was sixteen. I did not know — I did not know what I was giving up."
I kissed her. Thrusted deeper. Six inches now, a steady, rolling rhythm that made her breasts heave with each impact, the milk leaking in twin streams.
"He has never read me a story," she said, and now she was crying openly, the tears falling freely, her hands gripping my back. "He has never — ahhn — he has never touched me like — like this—"