Chapter 444 - 443 - Realizing the Truth Behind Fluffy Pussy
Gwen’s free hand had found his balls.
She wasn’t sure when that had happened. She was operating somewhat outside normal executive function at this point — the purple air thick in her lungs, his fingers still kneading her breast, his thumb now tracing the areola in maddening slow circles, the warmth of his thigh under her wet skirt, the weight and heat of his cock pulsing steadily in both their hands.
Her fingers cupped. Explored.
The fullness of them — heavy, dense, rolling warm against her palm — made her squeeze her own thighs together on his thigh instinctively.
Lira noticed, from the corner of her eye.
Said nothing. Her own thighs were doing the same.
Viktor turned his head.
"Rihana."
His voice carried the word with the ease of someone calling something they expect to come, not someone asking.
A soft sound from the bank. The wet slide of a heavy, tired body moving through shallow water. Then warmth along his back — the press of full, soft breasts against his spine, the tickle of damp hair against his shoulder, two arms circling from behind.
Rihana’s mouth found the side of his neck.
Her hands came around his torso, traveling his stomach — both women on his lap watching this with wide eyes as those hands traveled ’down’ — and then Rihana’s fingers joined the other four already wrapped around his cock.
Three pairs of hands.
Six fingers and two thumbs and one additional palm. The combined soft pressure — Gwen’s tentative grip at the head, Lira’s firm stroke along the shaft, Rihana’s experienced, proprietary double-handed wrap at the base — squeezed around him like something warm and architectural.
Viktor’s abs went tight.
"—Rihana." He said her name again. Different tone this time. Lower.
She sucked against his neck. Her breasts pressed heavier into his back, pillowing against his shoulder blades, and near his ear she breathed:
"Which demon clan."
Not a question he asked her. The words were just already in his mouth, falling out.
Lira’s hands stuttered on his cock.
The word ’demon’ hit the clearing and both women’s stroking rhythm broke simultaneously — their heads turning, looking at Rihana over his shoulder with the shared, stunned expression of people who have just had a floor tile shift under them.
’Demon.’
Rihana — their Rihana, the quiet, covered woman from the camp — horns catching the moonlight, naked and seed-full and completely, serenely ’attached to this man’s back.’
"Hybrid," Rihana murmured, lips brushing his ear. Her hands didn’t stop moving. If anything they tightened. "Siren and Cow clan."
She kissed the curve of his jaw.
"My voice." Another kiss. "My body." Her thumbs crossed at the base of his cock, rolling in opposite directions. "Both."
Viktor’s exhale was controlled but not effortless.
Gwen and Lira both felt the change — the sudden, definitive ’hardening’ of the cock in their collective grip as the information landed in him and his body decided what it meant. The ridges sharpened. The heat intensified. The pulse against their palms came stronger.
Both women resumed stroking without being told.
The embarrassment of it — the absurdity, three women’s hands on one cock in a moonlit pond, saliva on their chins, nipples hard under his palms, Rihana’s breasts flattened warm against his back — all of it was still there, but it had been reclassified. Filed under ’happening’ rather than ’shameful’, and their bodies had already moved on and committed.
His climax announced itself in the quality of his grip.
The fingers on both their nipples pinched ’down’ — hard, sudden, no warning — and both Gwen and Lira cried out against his shoulders as the sharp pull drew tears to Gwen’s eyes and a bitten-down moan from somewhere behind Lira’s teeth.
Then he pulled their nipples.
’Out.’ Stretching them through the fabric, thumb and forefinger drawing each one away from the chest with deliberate, sustained pressure that translated through cloth as exactly what it was — a claim stated in flesh-language — and both women’s strokes became frantic and broken and overlapping and entirely without coordination.
Rihana’s hands worked the base in long, smooth, practiced pulls.
The pressure built.
Built.
Viktor’s stomach flexed under their palms, once, hard.
He came.
Not quietly. Not contained. The first rope launched from his cock with enough force that both women startled backward on his thighs — the thick, glowing-faintly-purple load arcing high over the water surface before dropping — and then the second, and the third, each pulse hitting the still pond with a weight that spread visible rings outward in the moonlight.
His seed fell on the water like it meant to leave a mark.
Rope after rope. Thick, slow-cooling, catching the silver light as it landed and spread across the dark surface, pooling on the water like something precious being carelessly spent.
Both Gwen and Lira had stopped moving and simply watched.
Faces flushed. Hands still loosely wrapped around his spent, twitching shaft. Chests heaving under the damp, clinging fabric of their clothes. Eyes wide with the particular expression of women who have just participated in something they don’t have a prior category for.
Rihana rested her chin on Viktor’s shoulder.
She looked satisfied in the way that only people who have been completely emptied can look.
Viktor let out a slow breath.
Looked down at the water. At the seed still spreading across the surface in long, moonlit threads.
Then he turned his head, looking at Rihana’s horns over his shoulder — the elegant, dark curve of them, the Siren lineage in the angle of her jaw, the Cow clan in the impossible abundance of her body and its milk and its warmth — and something clicked audibly behind his eyes.
"Now I see," he said, without heat, almost to himself. The voice of a man making a conclusion.
"Why your body got that tight." A pause. "That thick." He watched his seed finish spreading across the water.
"Breeding quality." The words fell flat and factual and final.
"And that voice." His eyes moved to her mouth. "Was making me fuck you ’exactly’ like that."