Chapter 28: Volume 1- [ - 29 ]
I held her there. Deep in her throat, her eyes watering, her lips stretched thin around my shaft, her breasts swaying beneath her with each suppressed gag. I looked down at her face — the face of a pregnant woman with a mouth full of cock and eyes full of something that looked terrifyingly like love — and then I looked out the window at the man walking up the road, the man whose wife was currently giving me the best morning of my transmigrated life.
’You were fucking a hooker outside,’ I thought, and the satisfaction was a warm, golden thing that settled in my chest like sunlight. ’And here I made your wife my bitch.’
I looked down at Elira. Her tears were falling — not from sadness, not anymore, but from the gag reflex, from the pressure in her throat, from the overwhelming fullness of a cock that was too large for her mouth but which she was taking anyway because she had been told to and because she wanted to and because the line between those two things had blurred beyond recognition.
"Thank you for helping me with my morning wood, my dear lady," I said, and my voice was warm, polite, the voice of a lord expressing gratitude to a guest, and the absurdity of the courtesy given the context was not lost on me.
She tried to speak. My cock filled her mouth, reducing the words to a muffled, broken sound that was more vibration than language:
"Yo... ur... mmbh... wll...mnnh.. eelcome."
I smiled. Stroked her hair. Looked out the window at the knight approaching, and thought:
’Welcome indeed.’
I looked down at her.
Elira’s tongue traced a slow, lazy line along the underside of my shaft, her eyes half-closed, her lips glistening with saliva and the remnants of the juice I had poured there minutes ago. She looked peaceful. Content.
A pregnant woman on her knees, sucking cock in the morning light, her belly resting against my thigh, her hands holding my hips as though anchoring herself to something solid. The arousal meter glowed steady in my peripheral vision — ninety-two, ninety-three, holding — and the taste of her devotion was sweeter than the juice.
The system’s warning from last night echoed in the back of my mind like a bell that would not stop ringing. ’Deified villain. Hero party. Your death.’ This woman — this soft, milk-leaking, cock-sucking creature at my feet — would one day become the instrument of my destruction. The narrative weight of her future vengeance had already been calculated, already factored into the points, already woven into the invisible fabric of a story I was rewriting with every thrust.
It seemed impossible. She seemed impossible. The woman gently sucking the head of my cock while her husband climbed the cliff road from the village brothel did not look like a future god of retribution. She looked like a woman who needed someone to hold her.
And yet.
The original novel had been clear about one thing: the women in ’Blooming Thorns’ were not passive objects. They were forces. When they broke, they shattered outward, and the shrapnel killed everyone nearby. Elira, corrupted and discarded, would not simply mourn — she would burn. And the ashes of her grief would become a pyre large enough to consume a lord who had thought himself clever.
I needed to show her what her husband was.
Not because I cared about her feelings — I did not, or at least I told myself I did not, which amounted to the same thing in practice. But because a woman who believed her marriage was worth preserving was a woman with boundaries, and boundaries were inconvenient. I needed her to understand, on a level deeper than words, that Garrick was not faithful, was not loyal, was not worthy of the loyalty she was desperately trying to maintain even with my cock in her mouth.
Her pussy was mine. Her ass was mine. Her mouth was mine. Every hole on her body was going to learn the shape of my cock and forget every other that had come before. But that required the removal of the last barrier — the psychological wall that whispered ’Garrick’ every time she came, the guilt that made her hesitate, the moral architecture that turned every act of pleasure into an act of betrayal she could not fully surrender to.
I needed to tear that architecture down. And Garrick, in his arrogance, had handed me the sledgehammer.
I lifted her.
My hands found her waist — the soft curve of it above her hips, the warmth of her skin through the thin nightgown — and I pulled her upward, drawing her off my cock with a wet, sucking sound, her lips parting from the head with a thin string of saliva that broke and fell across her chin. She stood, wobbling, her pregnant belly pressing against my abdomen, the great round mass of it warm and firm against my stomach. Her hands found my chest for balance.
"What happened, Lord?" she asked, and her voice was breathless, confused, the voice of a woman who had been interrupted mid-task and did not understand why.
I chuckled. My hands settled on her waist, holding her with a gentleness that was entirely strategic and not entirely false. I looked at her face — flushed, damp at the hairline, her brown eyes wide and liquid in the morning light — and said:
"You look beautiful."
The word hit her like a physical thing. I watched it land — watched the tremor that ran through her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened on my chest, the way her breath caught and held. Her lips parted. No sound came. The arousal meter spiked: ninety-four, ninety-six.
’Beautiful. He said beautiful. Garrick has not — since the belly — he said I looked tired, he said I should rest more, he never said—’
I kissed her cheek. Soft, lingering, my lips tracing the line of her cheekbone toward her ear. She shuddered against me, her belly pressing harder into my abdomen, her hands sliding up to my shoulders.
"So," I murmured against her ear, my breath warm on her skin. "If we go somewhere tonight."
She pulled back slightly. Her eyes searched my face — confused, hopeful, frightened by her own hope. "Where?"
"A small date. If you want."
’A date. He said date. Like a courtship. Like the men in the stories I used to read before father married me off. A date. He wants to take me somewhere. Outside this house. As if I am a woman and not a — not a vessel—’
"I would," she whispered, and her voice trembled with a vulnerability that cut through my calculation and touched something I did not want to examine. "I would like that. As you say. But—"
She hesitated. Her gaze dropped. "My husband. What will he say?"
I smiled. The soft, reassuring smile of a man who had already solved the problem before it was presented. "He will say nothing. I will handle him. I am going to give him an advance salary — a generous one. Paid leave, you might say. He will find no fault."
Her face glimmered. The word ’handle’ washed over her like warm water, dissolving the last residue of resistance, and she surged forward, her arms wrapping around me, her belly sandwiched between us, her face buried in my chest.
"Thank you," she breathed, and the words came out broken, wet, pressed against my skin. "Thank you. Thank you for that, Lord."