Chapter 84 -85
I leaned back. Let her work. My hand found her head — not forcing, just resting, the fingers in her wet hair. The pleasure was different from the pussy — the mouth was warmer, wetter, the tongue more agile. And the sight — her brown hair in the water, her lips stretched around my cock, her eyes closed in concentration — was worth the points it was generating.
[ Oral (Quintuplet — bath) — 150 pts ]
I pulled her off. Lifted her. Carried her back to the bedroom. Dropped her on the bed — on her chest, her breasts mashing against the sheets, her ass raised, her pussy — swollen, red, still leaking — presented.
I positioned my cock. Not at her pussy. At her anal.
She trembled. “I am exhausted. Please — no more.”
“Just once,” I said, and my voice was warm, cajoling. “I want to test it.”
“No — stop — that is not for — that is not for sex—”
I pushed. The head pressed against the ring — the tight, untouched muscle, the resistance absolute. The Touch Amplification made the contact intense, but the anal was not her pussy — the lubrication was minimal, the tissue unforgiving.
“AAAANGH — NO — I SAID — NO — THAT IS NOT—”
I pushed harder. The head breached the ring — the muscle yielding, the tissue stretching, the pain sharp and immediate. She screamed — the same scream, the same pitch, the same sound she had made when her hymen tore.
“No — please — it hurts — it is the same — the same pain — as before — please — slow — slow—”
The tears came. She had cried when she lost her virginity — the blood, the pain, the breach. And now the tears were back, falling from the same eyes, running down the same cheeks, soaking into the same sheets. She had thought they were finished. She had thought the crying was done. But the body remembered pain, and the body wept.
I lay over her. My chest against her back, my weight pressing her into the mattress, my lips against her cheek. I kissed her — the salt of her tears, the warmth of her skin, the taste of her surrender.
“Slowly,” I whispered. “I will go slowly.”
I fucked her. The anal was tight — tighter than anything, the walls gripping my cock with a pressure that bordered on painful. The motion was slow — a humping rhythm, my hips rising and falling, the cock moving in inches. Each thrust pushed deeper, and each depth drew a new sound from her — a gasp, a whimper, a moan.
“Haah — haah — it hurts — but — there is — something — beneath — the same — as before — the pain is — changing—”
I held her hands. My fingers found hers, pressing them into the pillow, the grip intimate, the gesture of a lover. I kissed her cheek, her jaw, her ear.
“You are delicious, my love,” I murmured, and the words were a Dirty Whisper, the suggestion sinking into her mind. “Your body is perfect. You were made for me.”
‘Delicious. He called me — delicious. My body — made for him — I — the pain — it is — fading — and the — the feeling — it is — the same — as before — the same — as when he was — in my — pussy—’
I fucked her for an hour. The anal went from pain to pleasure — the Touch Amplification and the Pleasure Mapping working together, the nerve endings adapting, the tissue stretching, the walls learning to grip rather than resist. By the thirty-minute mark, she was moaning. By the forty-five-minute mark, she was pushing back. By the hour mark, she was screaming.
“KUAAAANGH — HIIIIEENGH — I CANNOT — ANYMORE — PLEASE — I AM — EXHAUSTED — MY — EVERYTHING—”
I pulled out. Her anal — gaping, red, the muscle slowly closing — leaked cum. I had climaxed inside her — the creampie filling her bowels, the warmth spreading through her lower body.
I looked toward the door.
The door to the bedroom was not fully closed. It had been left slightly ajar — a crack, an inch of open space, enough for light to pass and for someone to see.
And in that crack, I saw an eye. A pink lash. A brown iris.
Mirra.
I smirked. The expression was small, private, the smirk of a man who had just caught a spy. I activated the Body Reading skill, focusing on the sliver of Mirra’s face visible through the gap.
Mirra Ashwood — Arousal: 99/100
Ninety-nine. The woman I had told ‘I will not do that until we are married’ — the woman I had left on the table, wine-soaked and orgasm-wrecked, with the promise of marriage and the denial of consummation — had followed me. Had watched. Had listened to the screams, the moans, the slapping of flesh, the dirty talk, the sounds of a woman being fucked for four hours straight.
And she had touched herself.
I could hear her internal voice — clear, loud, the thoughts of a woman whose arousal was at ninety-nine and whose denial was absolute:
‘He is — inside her — the other one — the bartender — he is — his cock — in her — the sounds — I can hear — the wet sound — the slapping — she is screaming — she is — and he — his — the cock I — I had in my mouth — the cock I stroked — it is inside her and — I want — I want it — I want—’
‘Why — why did he say wife — why did he say marriage — why did he say not yet — and then — then he — with her — he did not marry her — he did not — he just — fucked her — for hours — and I — I am here — in the hallway — with my hand — between my — and I cannot—’
‘Why is my body — like this — the heat — between my legs — it will not stop — I touched myself — I am touching myself — in the hallway — like a — like a — and he — he does not — he said not yet — but he is — with her — and I—’
I pulled out of the bartender. My cock — still hard, the Infinite Torrent ensuring perpetual readiness — emerged with a wet sound. The bartender cried out at the loss, her body collapsing on the bed, her anal gaping, the cum leaking.
I sprinted. The Boots of the Wind activated — not the full speed, just enough to cross the room in a single stride. I grabbed the door. Swung it open.
Mirra was on the floor. Her back against the wall, her legs spread, her hand — her right hand — between her thighs, the fingers buried in her pussy, the motion frozen mid-stroke. Her left hand was on her breast, the fingers pulling the nipple through her dress, the fabric pushed aside, the pink flesh visible. Her face was wet — tears, the tears of a woman whose body was on fire and whose mind was drowning in shame.
On the floor between her legs — a puddle. The liquid — clear, glistening, the evidence of sustained arousal — had pooled on the stone, the size of it a testament to how long she had been there, how long she had been watching, how long she had been touching herself while listening to the woman inside scream.
Her eyes found mine. The brown irises — wide, wet, the pupils dilated to maximum — registered shock, horror, and the deepest, most consuming embarrassment I had ever seen on a human face.
“I — I did not mean to—” she started.
She burst into tears. The sound was not a whimper — it was a wail, the full-body sobbing of a woman who had been caught in the most private, most shameful act of her life, by the man who had caused it.
“Why—” she gasped, between sbs. “Why are you — making me — feel like — this—”