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

Chapter 539: Chapter 538- What a Cuck

The tail moved.

It struck like a scorpion — the tip of it pulling back, a brief, loaded pause, and then ’driving forward.’ Straight. Direct. Into her pussy from below him, angling upward, the pointed tip finding her entrance and plunging through it in a single, uncompromising thrust that reached her cervix before her body finished processing the intrusion at her anal.

Her spine cracked upward.

Her head whipped back.

Her mouth opened.

The sound that came out of it was the sound of two separate, simultaneous things happening to a woman’s body at once — her anal being filled by his cock and her pussy being filled by his tail — and whatever her nervous system was supposed to produce under those circumstances, it produced all of it at once, combined into one long, tearing sound that had no structure and no dignity and no consideration for the man on the floor ten feet away.

”IIIEEEENNGHHHH~!!!!! AAAHHHH~!!!! NGHH—NGHHHH~!!!! IT’S—IT’S TOO MUCH—MASTER—MASTER PLEASE—”

Her hands flew to her own breasts.

Not reaching for him. Not grabbing the sheet. Her own breasts — the only thing her hands could find that felt like something to hold onto, the fat, heavy, full weight of them filling her own palms, her fingers digging in, gripping herself with the frantic, clutching grip of a woman trying to anchor to something while her body became untethered.

Milk.

It came out of her nipples as she gripped — not a drop, not a leak, a ’spray.’ The pressure of her own hands squeezing her breasts forced the milk out in thin, arcing jets that hit the mattress below her in two separate wet impacts, spreading in dark circles on the sheets.

Edric watched this.

His wife. Her hands on her own breasts. Milk running through her fingers. His bed. His sheets.

He tried to close his eyes.

Couldn’t.

Viktor placed one knee on the bed.

The mattress dipped under his weight. His hand at her hip pulled her backward and upward simultaneously, adjusting the angle, seating himself deeper at her anal as the tail drove deeper at her pussy — the two of them working in opposite rhythms, alternating, so every half-second her body was being filled somewhere.

”PAH PAH!”

”AAHNGH~!! MMPH~!! NGH—NGHH~!!!”

”PAH PAH PAAH!”

”HAAIYAAANGH~!!! MASTER—MASTER I CAN’T—MY BODY—NGH—”

His hips blurred.

The rhythm vanished. Rhythm implies a measurable pace. What replaced it was simply ’speed’ — the rabbit-fast, continuous, blurring percussion of his hips against her ass cheeks, the crack of flesh on flesh becoming so continuous it stopped being individual impacts and became a single, sustained sound, the slap and clap of her thick ass bouncing back against him with each stroke, the fat cheeks spreading and smacking and spreading and smacking in rapid, jiggling, helpless repetition.

”PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH!!”

”AAAHH~!! AAAHH~!! NGHH~!! NGHH~!! HAAANGH~!! HIIEEE~!! AAANGHH~!!”

Her breasts were swinging so hard they smacked her own forearms.

The milk flying from the tips with each impact — small, fine arcs of it catching the low evening light from the window, landing on the sheets, on her own face when they swung high enough, on the floor beside the bed.

Her eyes.

Rolling. The whites visible. The lids fluttering with each thrust without ever quite closing. Her mouth open, lips pulled back, the sounds coming from her throat carrying no editing whatsoever — the raw, helpless, completely involuntary vocalizations of a body operating entirely beyond the range of its owner’s management.

”MASTER~!! MASTER~!! IT—HURTS—NGH—IT HURTS—AND I—I CAN’T—AAANGHH~!!!”

The tail vibrated inside her.

Not thrusting anymore — vibrating. The continuous, high-frequency tremor of it pressed directly against her cervix, the tip seated at the entrance of her womb and ’shaking’, the vibration transmitting through her entire pelvic floor simultaneously, her rebuilt walls clenching around it in rapid, helpless pulses.

Her pussy gushed.

Not dripped. ’Gushed.’ Running down the tail, running down her inner thighs, running onto the bed in a spreading stain that joined the blood and the milk in the comprehensive, honest, completely uncontrolled mess of a woman whose body had been taken past every threshold it owned.

Edric’s tears ran sideways.

The vine held his head at the angle. His face still on the floor, turned toward the bed. His eyes still open. The tears finding the path of least resistance along his cheekbone and the bridge of his nose and dripping from the tip of it onto the floor.

He could feel his own heartbeat.

That was all he could feel. His hands, his feet, his tongue — all sealed, all absent, his body a spectator to itself. Just the heartbeat. Too fast. Too loud in his own chest.

His wife.

He had named her. In his own heart, walking home from the market, flower in hand. ’My wife. She really must be waiting.’ The particular, specific, daily tenderness of an ordinary man who had an ordinary woman who was waiting for him.

The flower was on the step outside.

The pad was on the step outside.

His wife was being folded into a new position on his bed.

Viktor twisted her.

Spoon — one arm under her waist, pulling her sideways, his body behind hers, his cock still seated inside her anal, the new angle driving him deeper. Her back against his chest. Her thick ass pressed back against his hips. Her face — visible now from the doorway, turned toward the ceiling, mouth open, eyes rolling — aimed upward.

The panty.

He took it from the sheet where it had landed.

Looked at it.

Looked at Helviana.

Placed it over her face. Draped it across her eyes. Not cruelly — efficiently. The damp cotton covering her from brow to nose, the waistband across her forehead.

Tying her hands behind her with the bra — her bra, the one that had been on the floor since the beginning of this, the clasp still intact. Her wrists behind her back with the simple, practical knot of a man who has tied women before and knows how much restraint is necessary.

She didn’t fight it.

She would have fought it, once.

”Mmh~— Mmnh~— please~— Master please don’t stop—”

He didn’t stop.

”PAH PAH PAAH!”

”AAANGHH~!! NGH~!! YES—YES—HAAHH~!!!”

Then he stood.

Both of them — him standing, her in his arms, her back to his chest, her legs folding up and outward in the specific frog geometry that Edric had seen when he first opened the door, her tied hands behind her back pressing against Viktor’s stomach, her face covered by her own panty.

Held in midair over Edric.

Viktor walked toward the doorway.

Toward the floor.

Toward Edric.

He stopped directly above him.

His cock still inside her anal. The tail still vibrating inside her pussy. Both of her legs bent and spread in the air above her pinned husband’s body, the full, helpless, gravity-assisted spread of her thick thighs visible from directly below, everything visible from directly below — the tail, his cock at her anal, the continuous drip of everything her body was producing falling from her in a thin, continuous rain.

Viktor began thrusting.

Standing. Using his arms to lift her and drop her onto him — ’up’ and ’down’, her whole body rising and falling, the full weight of her coming down onto his cock with each descent, her head falling backward against his shoulder with the impact, her breasts lurching upward with each drop and smashing back down against her own chest.

”PAH!”

”AAAHHN~!!”

”PAH PAH!”

”NGHH~!! NGHH~!! MASTER—I’M—I’M GOING TO—”

”PAAH!!”

”HAAIIEENGH~!!!! NGH—NGHH—I’M—AAAHH~!!!”