100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 503: Chapter 502- Rihana’s Horns

His cock was in her throat, and he was thinking about how good this felt.

Not just the warmth of it — the wet, tight, comprehensive grip of Eliantra’s throat around him, the way her walls worked involuntarily around his shaft with each gag reflex, each swallow, each desperate attempt her body made to manage the situation it was in, her esophagus rippling and massaging him with rhythmic, choking heat that milked every inch as thick strings of throat slime coated him completely. That part was good. That part was excellent.

But the other part.

The mirror.

Elena’s face in it.

That was making his cock harder than anything else in the room, pulsing thicker and hotter inside the spasming tunnel as forbidden taboo power surged through his veins.

He felt it — the gradual, building tightening inside Eliantra’s throat as he watched Elena’s expression cycle through fury and disbelief and something underneath both that she was working very hard not to show, a dark, shameful hunger awakening in her eyes. The way Elena’s hands had spread for magic and then stopped. The way her voice had gone from weapon to wound in the space of thirty seconds.

That.

He pressed deeper.

Eliantra gagged.

”Mmmpphh~— HNGHH~—”

The foam building at the corners of her lips — honest, this-throat-has-been-working-hard foam of someone deep-throated past the point of managed response. Saliva mixed with everything else that had been produced down there over the last hour, running in thick, warm, bubbly threads down her chin and dripping from her jaw onto her chest in messy, obscene rivulets that glistened under the moonlight.

Her breasts.

His hand found them.

The heavy, saggy, full weight of them — the warm, generous reality of Eliantra Westing’s breasts, which were not the tight, performative breasts of a younger woman but the soft, lived-in, heavy breasts of a forty-year-old who had fed a child with them and carried them through two decades of running a county, now swollen even larger from his influence, veins faintly visible beneath stretched, sensitive skin. They now filled his hands with the comprehensive, this-is-a-real-woman’s-body warmth of something substantial, soft flesh overflowing his fingers as he kneaded them possessively.

He squeezed.

The milk came — from both nipples, the double, immediate, pressure-released flow of it running over his fingers in strong, warm, continuous sprays, sweet-scented and thin, her body doing what his breeding chemistry had been quietly instructing it to do since the first time he’d touched her, forcing her lactating glands to overproduce under his dominant hormonal command.

She didn’t know why she kept leaking.

She thought it was the stimulation. She thought it was the physical response of sustained arousal applied to a body that had once nursed.

She had no category for ”breeding god body fluid” as an explanation for why her nipples had been doing this for an hour, constantly leaking warm milk that soaked her skin and made her feel like a fertile animal in heat.

He was not going to explain it.

He gripped harder.

”MMMPPHH~!!”

Her internal world:

’I am going to die.’

’This man is going to kill me in my own bedroom.’

’He is going to —’

A thrust. Deep. The all-the-way depth of him in her throat, her nose pressed tight against his stomach, her air situation becoming a serious concern as her vision sparkled with desperate oxygen starvation and unwanted pleasure.

’He is absolute shit. He is — I cannot —’

’Why is Elena watching? Why is Elena — my daughter is —’

Her eyes found the mirror again.

Found Elena’s face.

The terrible, mother-daughter-at-the-worst-possible-moment eye contact —

And something happened.

Something she was not expecting and could not explain and was going to spend a considerable amount of time refusing to think about later.

The shame of it — of being seen by Elena, of her daughter’s face watching hers like this — hit her somewhere that produced the wrong response. A shameful, involuntary, body-has-its-own-opinions pulse of arousal that came from the humiliation rather than despite it, making her pussy clench hard and leak fresh juices down her thighs.

’No,’ she thought. ’No, I am not —’

His cock tightened in her throat.

”MMMPPHH~—”

’I am not enjoying — I cannot be — Elena is watching and I —’

The pulse came again.

Stronger.

Her thighs, pressed together below him, did something she had not told them to do, rubbing frantically as her clit throbbed with traitorous need.

’What is wrong with me.’

She did not know that the answer was: his fluid. Weeks of it. Rewriting the instructions, turning her mature body into a dripping, hyper-fertile breeding vessel desperate for more.

She didn’t know.

She just felt it.

And felt shame about the feeling.

And felt something about the shame that she was not going to examine, even as fresh milk squirted from her nipples in humiliating sympathy.

PAH! PAH! PAH!

Ten minutes.

He’d been going for ten minutes at this pace and his arms were not tired and his hips were not tired. The only thing that had changed was that the foam at her lips had thickened into creamy, sloppy mess and her eyes had gone to a fixed, somewhere-else stare of a woman who has been deep-throated past the point where presence is optional, completely cock-drunk.

He looked over her head.

At Rihana.

Who was —

He almost laughed.

Rihana was standing with the mirror, per her assignment, holding it steady — except that holding it steady had somewhere in the last ten minutes become a task she was accomplishing with one hand, because her other hand had found the front of her dress and was pressing against it with the flat, concentrated, I-am-doing-this-very-quietly pressure of a woman who has been watching something for long enough that her body has filed a formal complaint, her fingers now blatantly rubbing her soaked slit through the fabric.

Her breasts — the full, heavy, enthusiastic reality of Rihana’s chest — were doing what they did when her breathing changed: moving. The thick, compressed jiggle of them against the fabric came with each of her own small, involuntary hip rocks, her nipples stiff and visible as peaks.

Her eyes were on him.

The I-am-absolutely-watching-you-and-I-am-not-pretending-otherwise quality of them — warm, glazed, her lip between her teeth, drool threatening to spill.

He looked at her.

She froze.

”Rihana.”

Her name. Just that.

Her whole face changed — the immediate, this-is-what-I-was-hoping-for brightening of a woman who has been called by the person she has been very quietly hoping would call her.

She put the mirror down.

On the table.

Arranged.

Then she removed her dress.

The fabric hit the floor and everything that had been compressed under it was immediately present — the full, thick, honest weight of Rihana, the generous architecture of a woman built the way certain bloodlines build women, her body already glistening with a light sheen of aroused sweat. Her breasts landed with the warm, enthusiastic jiggle of things that have been waiting to be free for a while, heavy and swaying with every breath.

Her ass. Round, full, the kind of ass that moves when its owner moves regardless of whether the owner has opinions about that, cheeks clenching visibly with need.

And her horns.

The sudden, I-have-been-hiding-these appearance of them — the warm-gold bone of Cow Tribe horns emerging from beneath the concealment magic she’d been maintaining since she arrived in Hartfield County.

They had the same shape and color as Sofia’s, the same specific, bloodline-marked horns that Sofia had been told were unexplainable, now throbbing faintly with her rising lust.

She dropped to her knees.