Chapter 21: Volume 1- [ - 22]
I shifted our position.
Turned her onto her side — the left side, the position the doctor had recommended for sleeping during late pregnancy, which also happened to be the position that allowed the most comfortable penetration given the belly.
I spooned behind her, my chest against her back, my hand reaching around to cup her breast, my cock finding her entrance from behind and sliding in with a wet, easy motion that made her gasp.
This angle was different — shallower, but with a pressure against her front wall that made her clit sing. I fucked her slowly, my hand kneading her breast, my thumb teasing the nipple, my lips on the back of her neck, her ear, her shoulder. She reached back and grabbed my hip, pulling me into her with each thrust, her internal voice a cascading river of fragmented sensation and guilty, desperate pleasure.
’It feels — it feels like — I cannot think — his hands are everywhere — his cock is — I can feel the head — pressing against — oh — oh — something is building—’
I shifted to doggy style — or a modified version of it, with her upper body supported by pillows and her belly suspended above the mattress, her hips raised, her knees spread. She was heavy in this position, the weight of her belly pulling her down, but the pillows helped, and the angle opened her fully, allowing me to enter her with controlled, measured strokes that hit the deepest parts of her without the force that could cause harm.
I held my cock with my fist — wrapping my fingers around the shaft to control the depth, ensuring that no more than six inches entered her, the remaining four inches held back by the buffer of my grip. Each thrust was deliberate, paced, the head pushing to the limit I had set and then withdrawing, a rhythm of restraint that was, in its own way, more intense than the brutal pounding I had given Martha, because every inch was intentional, every stroke a calculated gift.
She came. Not once — repeatedly, in a series of climaxes that built on each other like waves, each one stronger than the last, each one accompanied by a gush of fluid that soaked the sheets beneath us and a sound from her throat that escalated from moan to cry to scream and back. Her whole body trembled with each orgasm, the belly tightening, the breasts leaking, the pussy clenching around my cock with a force that made my jaw clench with the effort of not coming myself.
I fucked her for what felt like an hour. Position changes — from modified doggy to spooning to her on top, riding me with careful, grinding motions, her belly resting against my stomach, her hands on my chest, her eyes closed, her mouth open, the sounds she made no longer human but something more elemental, something closer to music.
Finally, I pulled out. Her pussy gaped — swollen, red, drenched, the inner lips visible and trembling, the clit so overstimulated that the air touching it made her flinch. The bed beneath her was soaked — a dark, wet stain spreading across the sheets where her juices had pooled, the fabric sodden, the room heavy with the scent of female arousal and milk and sweat.
I climbed up her body. Straddled her chest. My cock — hard, throbbing, glistening with her fluids — hovered above her face. I reached down and removed her hands from where they had been covering her face, and her eyes opened, glassy, unfocused, tear-streaked.
"What — what happened?" she whispered, and the question was so innocent, so disoriented, that I almost felt something.
Almost.
I stroked my cock. Three, four, five rapid strokes, my fist a blur, my cock aimed directly at her face. The head flared, the shaft pulsed, and I came.
The first strand struck her across the bridge of the nose — thick, white, heavy, draping from one cheek to the other. The second landed on her forehead, pooling in the groove above her eyebrow. The third — weaker but no less copious — caught her lips, which were parted in shock, and she tasted it — salt and bitterness and the taste of her own pussy mixed with my seed.
Her eyes went wide.
"What — what is—"
I pushed my cock into her mouth.
Five inches. Not the full ten — even I had limits of practicality — but five inches of thick, cum-slick cock pushed past her lips, over her tongue, and into the soft, wet heat of her throat. She choked — a small, startled sound — and her eyes rolled as the taste hit her fully: her own vagina, her own arousal, my cum, all mixed together on her tongue, coating the inside of her mouth with a flavor she had never experienced and would never forget.
I held her head. Gently — not forceful, not cruel, but with the steady, guiding pressure of a man teaching a lesson. My fingers curled into her dark hair, ruffling it, smoothing it, and I thrust into her mouth — slow, shallow strokes that let her taste everything, feel everything, become everything I wanted her to be.
I came again. The second climax was smaller — a few thick pulses that flooded her tongue and overflowed, the excess spilling from the corners of her mouth and dripping onto the sheets, which were already so wet they might as well have been a lake. She swallowed — instinctively, reflexively — and the act of swallowing made her throat close around my cockhead, milking the last drops from me with a pulsing pressure that made my own knees buckle.
I withdrew. Looked down at her. Her face was a ruin — cum across her nose, her forehead, her lips, her chin. Her eyes were half-closed, glazed, the pupils dilated so wide that the iris had nearly vanished. Her mouth remained open, the tongue visible, coated white. Her hair was a mess, tangled with sweat and milk and other fluids. Her breasts heaved with each ragged breath, the nipples raw and leaking. Her belly rose between us, enormous and taut, the skin gleaming with the oil and sweat of the evening’s work.
I looked at the window. The night was still deep — hours until dawn, hours until Garrick woke, hours until Martha regained consciousness under the bed. The candle had burned down to a stub, the flame tiny and guttering, casting the room in a dying orange glow.
And in that glow, with the pregnant woman’s mouth still wrapped around the aftertaste of my cock and her body still trembling from the aftershocks of a dozen orgasms, I thought — with the quiet, satisfied cruelty of a man who has taken something that does not belong to him and found it delicious:
’Your wife was delicious, dumbass.’
And then the system chimed.
The blue window materialized in my vision with a soft, crystalline sound — not intrusive, not jarring, but with the quiet authority of an accountant presenting a finalized ledger.
[ VILLAIN SYSTEM — REWARDS PROCESSED ]