Chapter 54: Volume 1- [ - 55]
Seraphine. The tank. She had followed — probably to relieve herself, probably to check on us, probably for some mundane reason that had just collided spectacularly with the reality of what I was doing to the one-legged woman against the tree.
I did not stop.
I pulled Lira’s dress lower. Exposed her completely — her breasts, her belly, her pussy, the stump of her missing leg. I unfastened my towel. Let it fall. My cock — heavy, thick, hard — hung between us, the head crimson, the shaft veined.
Seraphine’s internal voice went silent. Then screamed:
‘THAT — THAT THING — HE IS — IT IS — THE SAME — I SAW IT BEFORE — WHEN HIS TOWEL — IT IS—’
I positioned my cock against Lira’s pussy. The head pressed against the entrance — wet, swollen, yielding. I looked at Lira.
“Can I fuck you?” I said, and the question was loud enough for Seraphine to hear — deliberate, performative, the question of a considerate lover rather than a predator.
Lira’s eyes filled. “Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”
I lifted her remaining leg. Held it — one hand under her knee, spreading her, her back against the tree, her arms around my neck for support. I pushed. The head entered. She gasped.
And I slammed.
“AAAAAANGH—!!”
Seven inches in a single thrust. Her walls — still tight from the days of rest, still swollen from the last session — clamped around my cock with a force that made my vision blur. She screamed, her hands clawing my shoulders, her body convulsing.
“FIRMIRIN — PLEASE — SLOW — TOO—”
I did not slow. I fucked her. Hard. The rhythm was brutal — my hips driving forward, my cock pulling out to the head and slamming back, the sound of our bodies meeting — PAH, PAH, PAH, PHACK — filling the grove. Her belly bulged with each thrust — the head pressing against her cervix, the outline visible through her abdominal wall, the flesh distending with each impact.
“HAANGH — HIIIIEENGH — MASTER — PLEASE — IT IS — TOO — DEEP—”
Behind the tree, crouched in the darkness, Seraphine watched. Her internal voice was a cascading river of shock and confusion and something else — something she would not name, something that was making her thighs press together and her breath come short and her face flush in the darkness:
‘He is — his cock — it is going — inside her — the size of it — how does it fit — she is screaming but — her body is — she is pushing back — she is — does it feel — does it—’
‘And her leg — the missing — he is holding the other one — lifting it — the way she is — against the tree — like — like a — and he is — the sound — the slapping — the—’
I fucked Lira for an hour. Changed positions — turned her around, face against the tree, her ass presented, her remaining leg on the ground, her stump raised. Entered her from behind. The angle was different — tighter, the head driving against her front wall, her clit pressed against the bark with each thrust.
“AHN — AHN — AHN — AHNNGH—!!”
Seraphine did not leave. I knew she was there — could hear her internal voice, could feel her gaze on my cock as it moved in and out of Lira’s pussy — and I performed for her. Each thrust was angled, each position chosen for maximum visibility, the cock and the pussy and the connection between them displayed for the woman in the shadows.
I pulled Lira toward the tree line. Toward Seraphine’s hiding spot. Not obviously — a gradual drift, a repositioning, the kind of movement that could be attributed to the needs of the act. But the direction was deliberate, and the result was that when I pulled out and stroked my cock — the final strokes before climax — I was facing the bush where Seraphine crouched.
I came. The climax was explosive — thick, white, copious, the first strand shooting with enough force to clear the two-meter gap between my cock and the bush. It struck Seraphine’s armor — the breastplate she had retrieved from the camp and was carrying, not wearing — with a wet, heavy ‘splat’ that she felt through the metal.
The second strand hit her gauntlet. The third, weaker, landed on the ground between us.
Seraphine ran.
‘No — no — no — it is — on me — his — the white thing — from his — it is — I need to — I need to clean — I need to—’
She crashed through the underbrush, her armor clanking, her face burning, her internal voice a shriek of mortification that echoed through the forest.
I stood there. Holding Lira’s ass. My cock, still dripping, hanging between us.
“You did well,” I said, slapping her ass. The sound was soft, appreciative.
She cried out. “Master — please do not leave me—”
“Come on,” I said, my voice soft. “Do not cry like that. You can have your leg back.”
She looked up. Her eyes — wet, wide, disbelieving — found mine. “Can I really?”
I looked at her. Smirked. “Of course. Do you think I cannot?”
The moonlight caught my face — the ash-grey hair, the amber eyes, the smirk that was not a smile but something older. Something with teeth.
‘I love you, master,’ her internal voice whispered, and the words were the truest thing she had ever thought.
She kissed me. Her lips found mine, her tongue pushing past my teeth, her arms wrapping around my neck. I kissed her back — a French kiss, deep and thorough, my tongue exploring her mouth, tasting the remnants of her own piss and my fingers and the salt of her tears.
Then I pulled back.
‘Have you at least cleaned your mouth?’ I thought, and the disgust was real, but the kiss continued because the performance required it.
I closed my eyes. Let her kiss me. And thought:
‘This is my bitch after all.’
The pond was silver in the moonlight. Seraphine knelt at its edge, her armor — the breastplate, the gauntlets, the pauldrons — laid out on the rocks beside her, splattered with something white and thick that she was scrubbing frantically with a handful of wet leaves.
Her hands were shaking.
‘What did I see? Why did I even stand there? Why did I not — the moment I saw — I should have — but I stayed. I stayed and watched. I watched him — his cock — going in and out of — that woman — and I — my body — I was—’
She pressed her thighs together. The sensation between them — the warmth, the wetness, the ache that had started when she saw his cock sliding into Lira’s pussy and had not stopped — was foreign and terrifying. She was a warrior. A tank. A woman who had dedicated her life to combat, to defense, to the asexual discipline of the sword. She had never — not once, not in twenty-three years of life — felt this particular warmth between her legs.
She opened her armor further. Removed the under-tunic — soaked with sweat, clinging to her skin. Her blonde hair fell free, past her shoulders, the metallic gold darkened by moisture.
Her face — angular, strong, the high cheekbones and the hawk-yellow eyes — was flushed. Deeply, thoroughly flushed, the red reaching down her neck, across her collarbones, to the upper swell of her breasts beneath the thin chemise she wore beneath her armor.
‘What is wrong with me? Why is my body temperature elevated? Why did I — when I saw — his — the size of it — the way it moved — the sound — the slapping — the woman screaming — and I — I was—’