parentshiftbook Chapter 634 - 633- The Kowtowed Demoness
Chapter 634 - 633- The Kowtowed Demoness
The words were quiet. Almost whispered. The voice of a boy, not a man — the child who had been held by this woman’s sister, who had been taught to walk, who had been raised by a family that he was now holding in a cave.Evriana’s eyes went wet.
"Oh," she said. "Elder sister, do you?"
She looked over her shoulder. At his face. At the violet eyes that were looking up at her — not with the predatory, hungry, I-want-to-fuck-you gaze she had seen directed at Dara and Berenga. With something else. Softer. Warmer. The particular, complicated, layered expression of a man who was holding the woman who reminded him of his mother.
He smiled.
"Can I suck your boobs?" he said.
The question — the casual, direct, utterly shameless request delivered in the same warm tone — snapped her out of the moment.
She trembled.
"I — I don’t know," she stammered. "There would be no milk coming out."
The words were absurd. The particular, medical, practical, entirely missing-the-point response of a woman who had been asked a sexual question and had answered it with a biological concern.
He chuckled.
"You don’t have to worry about that," he said. "I will stuff them with milk soon enough."
The implication — the particular, vulgar, devastating implication of ’stuff them with milk’ — hit her. Her face went from crimson to purple.
He grabbed her boob.
Through the bra. His hand finding the heavy, swollen flesh, his fingers sinking in. The flesh overflowed — bulging between his fingers, spilling over his palm, the stiff nipple pressing against his hand through the cotton. He kneaded. Squeezed. Pulled.
She cried out.
The gasp — sharp, high, involuntary — escaped her before she could catch it. The sensation of a hand on her breast — the first hand, the only hand, the hand she had never allowed anyone — sent a shock through her body that pooled between her legs.
He pulled the bra down.
Her tit fell free. The heavy, dense, pale flesh — the full, mature, Ktorian-built breast that had never been touched by a man — emerged from the cotton. The nipple was dark. Stiff. The areola wide, slightly textured, the peak swollen and aching.
He sucked.
His mouth closed around the nipple. His lips sealed. His tongue found the stiff peak and — swirling, lapping, pressing — began to work. He sucked with the steady, rhythmic, devoted pressure of a man who knew what he was doing and was doing it thoroughly.
Her hand found his hair.
Her fingers — trembling, uncertain, the fingers of a woman who had never held a man’s head — sank into his dark hair. She gripped. Not pulling. Not pushing. Holding. The instinctive, grounding, anchor-me-to-reality grip of a woman who was drowning in sensation and needed something to hold.
"Victor," she gasped. "Please. Be gentle. They hurt."
The words were breathless. Broken. The confession of a woman whose nipples ached — not from pain but from the intense, overwhelming, never-before-experienced stimulation of a mouth on flesh that had never been mouthed.
He pulled back.
His lips left her nipple with a wet, sucking sound. The peak was swollen — dark, raw, glistening with his saliva, the areola reddened from the suction.
"My cock is hard, Aunt," he said.
The words were direct. Unvarnished. The flat, honest statement of a man who was sitting with a twelve-inch erection pressed against the ass of a woman in his lap.
"Can I fuck you?"
She trembled.
Her tears fell. Not from sadness. From the overwhelming, devastating, too-many-emotions-at-once flood of a woman who was being asked the question she had been imagining for twenty years and was not ready to answer.
"Why are you doing it?" she whispered. "You already have seen me. Looking at you last night, right?"
He chuckled.
"Indeed I did," he said.
His tongue found her nipple again. A single, slow, dragging lick — from the base of the areola to the tip of the nipple, the wet, warm, deliberate contact that made her entire body twitch.
Her nipples tightened. Stiffened further. The peaks hardening under his tongue, the flesh around them puckering, the areola contracting.
"But didn’t it fun to fuck a woman like you like this?" he said.
The grammar was broken. The meaning was clear. The particular, filthy, direct, ’wouldn’t-it-be-fun’ proposition of a man who was offering sex and framing it as entertainment.
He opened his mouth.
Her mouth opened.
They kissed.
His lips found hers. His tongue pushed past — the wet, warm, intruding, claiming contact of a French kiss delivered by a man who had kissed two other women last night and was now kissing his aunt. His hand — still on her boob — kneaded. Squeezed. The rhythm of his fingers matched the rhythm of his tongue.
’Slurp.’
The wet, soft, intimate sound of mouths and tongues mixing filled the cave. The particular, unmistakable, cannot-be-confused-with-anything-else sound of a kiss that was not a peck. Not a press. A kiss — deep, wet, tongue-involved, the kind of kiss that made the recipient’s toes curl and their pussy clench.
Evriana moaned.
The sound — small, muffled, swallowed by his mouth — escaped. The particular, involuntary, I-cannot-contain-this vocalization of a woman who was being kissed for the first time and was discovering that a kiss could make her body respond in ways she had not known.
The cloaked woman stared.
"What are they doing?" she whispered. Her red eyes were wide. Her hands were over her mouth — not her eyes, her mouth, the particular gesture of a woman who was watching something shocking and was physically preventing herself from speaking.
"It is like an animal," she said.
The observation was accurate. The kiss — the wet, sloppy, tongue-involved, moan-producing, boob-kneading, cock-against-ass embrace — did look animal. Two bodies pressed together, mouths locked, hands roaming, the sounds wet and rhythmic and utterly devoid of the dignity that separated humans from beasts.
The cloaked woman watched.
She saw Evriana’s hips. The princess’s thick, bull-kin hips — bare except for the thin panty — were moving. Grinding. The slow, unconscious, rhythmic, circular motion of a woman who was sitting on a cock and whose body was responding to the kiss by rubbing against it. Evriana was massaging his cock with her ass — the grinding, rolling, forward-and-back motion that she did not know she was doing, that her body was producing on its own, the instinctive, inherited, biological response to arousal that no education had prepared her for.
The demon woman felt strange.
Watching. The thick woman grinding. The man’s hands on her boob. The kiss. The moan. The entire scene was producing a response in the cloaked woman’s body that she did not want and could not control. A warmth. A wetness. A particular, tingling, unfamiliar sensation between her legs that she had only felt around Oppa and was now feeling while watching two humans kiss.
She turned toward her boyfriend.
The barbarian. Still wrapped. Still mummified. Still vibrating with rage and pain, his red eyes glaring from between the vines.
"Wait," the cloaked woman said. "Wait."
She stood.
"Please," she said, approaching Viktor. "Please leave him first."
Viktor pulled away from the kiss.
Saliva connected their lips — the thin, glistening strand that the cloaked woman found both fascinating and revolting. He looked at the demon. At her pleading face. At her kowtowing body.
"They want me to help him," he said.