parentshiftbook Chapter 593 - 592 - Training for a Mare Starts Now
Chapter 593 - 592 - Training for a Mare Starts Now
He turned her.The motion was smooth, decisive, the movement of a man handling something that belonged to him. Her heavy body spun, her feet slipping on the wet tile, her hands reaching out to find purchase. Her palm slapped against the wall, the cold tile meeting her skin with a shock that made her gasp.
He pushed her.
Her heavy tits pressed against the tile — the full, dense, mature weight of them flattening against the hard surface, the stiff nipples scraping, the wet blouse clinging like a second skin. Her thick ass presented outward, the heavy globes lifting, the skirt bunched around her waist, the plain cotton panty exposed and damp and clinging to the hairy, swollen lips of her cunt.
She realized then.
As his hands gripped her hips — the broad, strong, mature width of them — and his cock pressed against the seam of her panty, she realized something that made her cry harder.
He was above her.
In the ranks.
In the blood.
He was royalty.
She was a broken commander, a discarded soldier, a woman whose core had been shattered and thrown away. And he was the matriarch’s own blood — the count’s son, the nine-star mage, the half-demon with a tail and a crown’s worth of power in his veins.
The hierarchy crashed down on her.
She trembled violently.
Her knees buckled.
If his hands had not been holding her hips, she would have collapsed.
"I can’t—" she sobbed.
The vulnerability was absolute.
The hurt was ancient.
She was nothing.
A ruined woman with a ruined life and a ruined cunt, and he was a prince.
"Shh," he whispered.
He leaned over her.
His chest pressed to her back.
His lips found her tear-streaked cheek — kissing the wet salt, his tongue flicking out to taste her grief.
"Don’t," she cried.
But she didn’t move away.
He kissed her tears again.
His mouth moved from her cheek to the corner of her mouth, his lips catching the tears that ran down, his tongue tracing the path of her sorrow. He made her taste it — her own salt, her own pain, mixed with the warmth of his mouth.
"Slurp," he whispered against her lips.
The sound was vulgar.
Intimate.
Humiliating.
He kissed her fully then — his mouth covering hers, his tongue pushing inside, filling her with the taste of him and the taste of her own tears. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She could only slurp against his tongue, her mouth moving helplessly, her body pinned between the cold tile and his hot flesh.
Her internal thoughts were a mess.
’What is he doing?’
’Why am I letting him?’
’He’s royal. He’s blood. He’s above me. He could kill me. He should kill me. I served the ones who killed his mother. I served the ones who killed my family. I am filth. I am nothing. But his mouth— his hands—’
She tried to process.
She couldn’t.
The thoughts wouldn’t line up.
They scattered like birds, each one taking flight before she could catch it, leaving her with only sensation — the tile against her tits, his tongue in her mouth, his cock against her panty, his hands on her hips.
He pulled back slightly.
His hand moved between her legs.
He nudged her panty aside — the wet, clinging cotton pushed to the side, exposing the hairy, swollen, dark lips of her cunt. The hair was matted with her juice and his pre-cum and the steam of the room. The lips were parted, engorged, the blood he had manipulated still pooled there, making her sensitive and aching and ready.
He pressed his cock against her entrance.
"Wait—" she gasped.
She turned her head, trying to look at him over her shoulder, her eyes wild, her mouth swollen from his kiss.
"Don’t— I can’t— I’m not—"
PAH!
He entered her.
Balls-deep.
One thrust.
The full, thick, brutal length of his royal cock plunging into the broken, hairy, wet cunt of a ruined commander.
"AAANNNH~!!"
She screamed.
The sound was torn from her — raw, desperate, the scream of a woman who had been entered without permission and had discovered that her body was grateful for it.
He began to fuck her.
Hard.
Relentless.
Not giving her a moment to process.
Not giving her a moment to think.
PAH PAH!
"NGH~!! HAAHH~!! WAIT~!!"
She tried to speak.
Tried to tell him to stop, to slow down, to let her mind catch up with her body.
But he didn’t stop.
He fucked her harder.
The wet, continuous, brutal sound of his hips against her thick ass — the meaty, heavy, obscene slap of flesh on flesh — filled the bathroom. His cock plunged into the cunt he had prepared all night, the walls gripping him, the hairy lips stretched around his girth.
"Don’t—" she sobbed.
"Please— I can’t think—"
He grabbed her head.
Twisted it.
Forced her to look back at him over her shoulder.
His eyes were violet and black and completely merciless.
"Don’t think," he growled.
He kissed her again — a hard, brutal, claiming kiss while his cock pounded her from behind.
She grabbed his head.
Her thick, strong fingers — the fingers of a cook and a soldier — tangled in his pale hair and pulled him closer. She held him there, her mouth open under his, her body pinned between the tile and his thrusting hips, and she let herself be fucked.
She stopped fighting.
She stopped thinking.
She let him use her.
PAH PAH PAAH!
"NGH~!! MMM~!! HAAHH~!!"
He pulled her back from the wall.
Spun her.
Pushed her down.
She fell onto the wet tile — her heavy body landing with a slap, her back against the floor, her heavy tits heaving, her thick thighs spread.
He came down over her.
His knees between her legs.
His cock — wet, glistening, thick with her juice — found her entrance again.
He entered.
PAH!
"AAANNNH~!!♡"
He fucked her on the bathroom floor.
The tile was cold against her back.
His body was hot above her.
He pounded her with the unhurried, brutal, royal rhythm of a man who had decided to breed a woman and was going to finish the job. His hands found her heavy tits — mauling them, pulling them from her blouse, the buttons popping, the fabric tearing.
He sucked her nipples.
His mouth closed over the dark, stiff, aching peak of her left tit, his tongue swirling, his teeth grazing.
"AAHH~!!♡" she cried.
Tears streamed down her face.
Real tears.
Grief tears.
Tears for her husband.
Tears for her child.
Tears for the commander she had been and the cook she had become.
He sucked harder.
His hand found her right tit, squeezing, pulling, twisting the stiff nipple while his cock drove into her cunt with the wet, relentless sound of flesh being claimed.
"Please—" she sobbed.
"I can’t—"
PAH PAH PAAH PHACK!
"NGH~!! HAAIYAANGH~!!♡"
He didn’t let her mind process.
Every time she tried to form a thought — ’this is wrong, this is right, this is revenge, this is ruin’ — he drove into her harder, deeper, pounding the thought out of her skull through her cunt.
He kissed her tears again.
His lips moved from her tit to her mouth, tasting the salt, drinking her sorrow.
"You’re mine," he whispered.
"No—" she gasped.
"Yes."
He hooked his hand around her neck.
Not strangling this time — holding.
Claiming.
Using her throat as a handle while he fucked her, his fingers pressing against her pulse, feeling her heartbeat race.
"You’re my pillow," he growled.
"Something to hold while I take what I need."
He fucked her like that — hand on her neck, cock in her cunt, body covering hers, pinning her to the tile.
She couldn’t move.
She could only take it.
Her heavy tits bounced with each thrust — the dense, mature flesh rocking on her chest, the dark nipples stiff and wet from his mouth. Her thick thighs spread wide, her knees bent, her feet flat on the tile, her heavy ass slapping against the wet floor with each downward thrust.
"Look at me," he commanded.
She opened her eyes.
Her tears blurred him — the violet eyes, the pale face, the devil’s smile.
"Look at me while I fuck you," he said.
She looked.
And she cried harder.
Because he was beautiful.
Because he was terrible.
Because he was royal and she was broken and he was inside her and she had never felt so full and so empty at the same time.
PAH PAH PAAH!
"AAANNNH~!!♡♡!! NGH~!!"