Chapter 16: Volume 1- [ - 17 ]
Her pussy gripped him like a vice, clenching and fluttering around the invasion, and the oil made everything worse — every ridge, every vein, every millimeter of his shaft was amplified into a sensation so intense that her body responded before her mind could catch up. She came. Instantly, violently, her whole body convulsing around him in a wave of spasms that she had not chosen and could not stop, her walls clamping down on his cock with a force that made them both gasp.
He pulled out. The withdrawal was as sudden as the entry — a vacuum sensation that made Martha’s thighs clench together, her pussy gaping and clenching at nothing, a thin spray of fluid arcing from her opening as the sudden release of pressure triggered something involuntary.
She gasped — a huge, shuddering intake of breath, the kind of gasp that follows near-drowning — and then he slammed back in.
Her mouth formed an ’O.’
The second thrust was deeper than the first. The third deeper than the second. Each one drove the air from her lungs, each one sent her breasts — those massive, heavy breasts — surging up her chest toward her face and then falling back with a weight and momentum that left red marks where they struck her chin and arms. Her body was being rocked, hammered, driven into the mattress with a rhythm that left no room for thought or resistance or anything except the relentless, piston-driven reality of a cock that was hitting places inside her she had not known existed.
PHACK. PHACK. PHACK.
The sounds were obscene — wet, heavy, the slap of flesh against flesh echoing off the stone walls, mixed with the creaking of the bed frame and the breathless, broken sounds that escaped Martha’s mouth between impacts.
"Hnnnght — hahhh — please — too deep — too — AAHH—"
’He is hitting — he is hitting something inside me — my womb — I can feel the head pressing against my — it is too far, it is too deep, I cannot—’
He grabbed her neck. His hand closed around her throat — not squeezing the airway, but applying pressure to the sides, the controlled grip of a man who understood that the right pressure on the right arteries made the world go bright and dizzy and desperate.
Martha’s eyes went glassy. Her tongue extended past her lips. Her hands, which had been pushing weakly against his chest, went limp, her fingers curling instead into the sheets as her body surrendered to a rhythm it could no longer fight.
"You feel that?" he said, his voice steady, almost conversational, while his hips drove into her with a force that rattled the bed against the wall. "That is your cervix. That is the door to your womb. And I am going to knock on it until it opens."
"NO — please — you cannot — I will — I will break—"
"You will not break. You will take it."
He lifted her left leg and placed it over his shoulder. The new angle opened her further, drove him deeper, and Martha screamed — a raw, hoarse sound that cracked in the middle and became a moan. Her body folded, her thick thigh pressed against his shoulder, her pussy tilted upward, and his cock drove into her at a downward angle that let the head hammer directly against her cervical opening with each thrust.
PAH. PAH. PAH. PHACK.
"HAAANGH — ahhngh — hiienghh — anhgh —"
Her moans had lost all coherence. They came in time with his thrusts — punctuated, broken, each one forced from her lungs by the impact of his hips against her thick ass. Her internal voice was a mess of fragmented sensation and involuntary response:
’Too deep too deep too deep — my body is — something is building — no, I will not — I will not cum again for this — this monster — this — anhgh — his cock is — it is hitting — I can feel it in my stomach — I can feel—’
He lifted her. Both legs off the bed, her thighs hooked over his forearms, her back against the wall — he picked her up as though she weighed nothing and drove into her from below, using gravity to impale her on every inch. Martha’s arms wrapped around his neck instinctively — the only thing keeping her from falling — and her face buried itself against his shoulder, her muffled screams vibrating against his skin.
He kissed her. His mouth found hers in the chaos of motion, and the kiss was not gentle — it was possessive, devouring, his tongue pushing past her lips and swallowing the sounds she made. She kissed back. Not because she wanted to — or perhaps because she did, in that place beneath thought where the body’s truth lives — but because her mouth needed something to hold onto while the rest of her was being torn apart and rebuilt with each thrust.
The room filled with the sounds of sex. Wet, slapping, flesh-on-flesh sounds mixed with muffled moans and broken whimpers and the creaking protest of a bed frame that had not been designed for this kind of structural stress. The candle guttered in the draft from their motion, sending wild shadows across the walls — shadows that looked like demons dancing.
He came. Thick, hot, deep — pulse after pulse flooding her insides, his cock buried to the root, the head pressed firmly against her cervix as though determined to mark every inch of her. Martha’s body responded with its own climax — a violent, full-body convulsion that made her walls clamp down on him so hard he grunted, her legs locking around his back, her nails raking his shoulders, a sound coming from her throat that was half-scream and half-sob and entirely beyond her control.
He held her there, impaled, trembling, until the last pulse had been milked from him by her clenching walls. Then he withdrew — slowly, inch by inch, letting her feel every ridge of his exit — and set her down on the bed.
Martha collapsed. She lay on her back, legs spread, cum leaking from her swollen, red, thoroughly used pussy in a slow, thick stream that pooled on the sheets beneath her. Her breasts heaved with each ragged breath, the nipples raw and stiff, the soft flesh marked with the red imprint of his hands. Her eyes were open but empty, staring at the ceiling, her mouth still forming the shape of sounds she could no longer produce.
’What — what just — what did he — my body — I came — I came from — oh gods — oh gods—’
Caelum stood over her, his cock still half-hard, glistening with their combined fluids. He looked down at her with an expression that was not cruel, not kind, but something in between — the satisfied assessment of a man examining the results of an experiment that had gone exactly as predicted.
"Your punishment," he said, "is not over."