parentshiftbook Chapter 611 - 610- Trying to Kiss the Lady
Chapter 611 - 610- Trying to Kiss the Lady
Through the thin fabric of her panty, he could feel it — the heat, the hair, the particular, warm, soft, swollen shape of a cunt that had never been entered. His fingers rubbed. The cloth pressed into her cleft, the friction stimulating her lips, her clit.She cried.
"It was Lady Evriana," she said.
Her voice was broken — the tears, the fear, the unwanted pleasure of his hand on her pussy mixing together into a sound that was half-confession and half-moan.
"She told me to seduce you," she continued. "To make you fall for me. To bear your child."
His fingers rubbed harder.
The panty was damp — the involuntary, physiological response of a body that was being stimulated, regardless of the fear, regardless of the context. The fabric was warm, wet, the cotton clinging to her hairy lips.
"The reason we arrived here," she said, gasping, "for the demon hunt—"
His mouth found her nipple.
He bit. Not hard. The sharp, precise, controlled bite of a man who was using pain as punctuation.
"Ah~!" she cried.
"—is because we got intel," she continued, the words rushing out between gasps. "About your carriage. Halting here. On the way to the capital."
He sucked her nipple.
The large, stiff, strange peak of it — the thick, swollen flesh — filled his mouth. He sucked with the wet, greedy, pulling pressure of a man tasting something new, his tongue swirling over the unusual texture, his teeth grazing.
She moaned.
The sound was involuntary, honest, the raw, uncontrolled response of a woman whose body was being overwhelmed. Her back arched off the moss, her massive tits lifting, her hands finding the ground and gripping the moss.
He moved up.
His face above hers. Looking down at her tears — the silver moonlight catching them, making them shine on her cheeks, her jaw, her neck. The expression on his face was calm, appraising, the look of a man who was processing information and deciding what to do with it.
He chuckled.
And kissed her.
His mouth found hers — the full, deep, claiming kiss of a man who had just received valuable intelligence and was rewarding the source. His tongue pushed into her mouth, finding hers, the wet, warm, intimate contact of a French kiss that was both interrogation and foreplay.
She made a sound.
A muffled, confused, overwhelmed sound — the vocal response of a woman who was being kissed by the man she had been sent to seduce and was finding the seduction running in the wrong direction.
His hand was still on her tit.
Rubbing the nipple — the large, stiff, strange peak — his fingers pulling, twisting, the wet, continuous, maddening stimulation of flesh that was being handled by an expert.
His other hand moved.
Down. Between her legs. His palm pressing against her pussy over the panty, rubbing with the firm, circular, persistent pressure that he had used on Naro and Dara and every other woman he had claimed.
She was wet.
The panty was soaked — the warm, dark stain spreading, the cotton clinging to her hairy lips, the fabric pulling into her cleft.
’What is happening with me?’
The thought was hers. Internal. The confused, overwhelmed, spiraling thought of a woman whose body was responding to a man she had been sent to manipulate and was now being manipulated herself.
’His hands. His mouth. His tongue. My nipples. My pussy. I am wet. I am so wet. What is happening?’
He pulled back.
The saliva connecting their tongues — a thin, silver strand that caught the moonlight, stretching between his lips and hers, breaking and falling onto her chest.
"If it is just for you to get pregnant," he said, his voice low, warm, the voice of a man offering a business arrangement, "I can do that."
She trembled.
The word — ’pregnant’ — hit her with the force of the mission she had been given, stripped of its political context and reduced to its biological reality. She was here to get pregnant. By him. For Evriana’s plot.
And he was offering to do it.
He lifted himself.
Up onto his knees, his body rising above hers, his face in the moonlight. The pale, beautiful, terrifying face of a half-demon prince who had just agreed to impregnate her.
"I would not be gentle," he said.
He chuckled.
The low, dark, private sound of a man who knew exactly what ’not gentle’ meant and was enjoying the anticipation.
She trembled.
Her whole body — her massive tits, her thick thighs, her muscular arms — shaking with the force of the fear and the arousal and the overwhelming, inescapable reality of what was about to happen.
"Please," she whispered. "Forgive me."
She was still crying.
The tears fell steadily, running down her temples into her hair, the silent, continuous, helpless tears of a woman who had been caught and bound and interrogated and kissed and was now being undressed by the man she had been sent to seduce.
He pulled her dress away.
The strip of cloth that bound her tits — already displaced — was pulled free entirely, exposing her full, heavy, massive chest to the moonlight. The dark pink areolas, the thick, stiff, large nipples, the trembling flesh.
The hanging cloth — the fabric that covered her pussy — was lifted. Pushed aside. Her panty was visible — white cotton, plain, the fabric stretched across her wide, muscular, bull-kin hips. The crotch was dark, wet, the cotton clinging to the hairy, swollen lips beneath.
He nudged it aside.
The panty pulled to the right, the fabric stretching, the cotton pulling out of her cleft. Her pussy was revealed — white, hairy, the lips thick and full and swollen, the hair dark and curly and matted with her juice. The inner lips — pink, puffy, the flesh engorged with the blood he had not even needed to command — peeked from between the outer ones.
He unzipped his trousers.
The metal teeth parting, the fabric spreading. His cock emerged — not hard. Not yet. The thick, heavy, limp length of it hanging between his thighs, the head resting against his leg, the shaft veined and dark even in its resting state.
He looked at her.
At her tears. At her trembling body. At her massive tits and her hairy, wet, swollen pussy.
"You need to harden it," he said.
She looked at his cock.
The limp, heavy, thick length of it — even soft, it was larger than most men hard. The size of it, the weight, the particular, intimidating, flesh-heavy reality of a demon’s cock in its resting state.
"How?" she whispered.
Then, louder, the panic rising: "Wait— please— don’t—"
He placed it.
On her belly. The limp, heavy, warm length of his cock resting on her stomach, the head lying just below her navel. The weight of it — the dense, warm, heavy, fleshy weight — pressing against her skin.
"You have boobs," he said. "Use them."
She looked down.
At his cock on her belly. At her massive, trembling, exposed tits. At the obvious, simple, mechanical arrangement he was suggesting.
"Hold them," he said.
She trembled.
Her hands — the thick, strong, scarred hands of a bull-kin warrior — came up. She found her own tits, gripping them from the sides, pressing the heavy, warm, soft flesh together. The massive mounds compressed, the inner surfaces meeting, creating a deep, tight, warm channel between them.
He sat on her belly.
His weight pressing down, his hips settling on her stomach, his cock resting in the channel she had created. The head of his cock protruded from the top of her cleavage — the dark, thick, soft head resting against her upper chest, the shaft buried between her heavy tits.
He started to move.