Chapter 374 - Someone Help the Lady
His hand worked two final strokes and his seed fell from him to the floor — she could see it, could see the exact moment, his face twisted with the specific pain-pleasure of a young man who has pushed past sensible limits and has paid for it.
She bit her own lips through the panty fabric.
"’Stop.’" Barely sound. Directed at nobody who would listen. "’Don’t do that — stop—’"
And then she saw it.
Gareth’s cock, barely ten seconds past release, beginning to harden again.
The base of it thickening first — the visible, undeniable return of blood to flesh — and his face, as he looked at his screen, was the face of a young man who had expected resolution and gotten the opposite.
Jennifer stared at it through her tears.
’’He’s aroused.’’
Not surprise, exactly. Bone-deep, maternal horror.
But her pussy clenched around nothing and her ass was still fluttering in the aftermath of his release and her nipple was still caught between his fingers and her body — her own body, her ’traitor’ body — was running wet and warm and open and nothing she felt right now was simple.
’’What has he done to my son.’’
She bit her lip so hard it bled.
Raven pulled out.
The withdrawal made a sound she refused to catalogue.
He pressed his cock to her lips.
She turned her face.
"’It’s — that’s dirty — that just came from my — I won’t — I’m not going to — ’"
His hand found her nose.
Closed it.
Not roughly — with the same certain, unhurried grip he used for everything — and waited.
She breathed through her mouth for three seconds.
Closed her mouth.
Lasted four more seconds.
Opened it.
He entered her mouth.
Nine inches. The cock that had spent the last several hours in places she was still processing the existence of, now sliding forward between her lips, and her tongue worked automatically — she hated that it worked automatically, hated that her mouth had learned the shape and weight and taste of him over the course of the day and was now applying that learning without her consent.
His cock was enormous in her mouth.
She knew this. She had known this all day. But the angle was different now — her on her back on the edge of the bed, him standing over her, the cock driving at a downward angle into her throat — and at this angle she could ’see’ it.
She could see the outline of him in her own neck.
The cockhead pressing through the skin of her throat from the inside, making a visible, obscene ridge that moved — ’moved’, forward and back, his nine inches literally visible from outside her own body, his shape evident in the skin of her neck as he fucked her mouth with the patient, thorough attention of a man completing a checklist.
His balls descended with each forward stroke.
Hit her nose.
She breathed the smell of herself off them between each thrust and could not stop this from happening.
Her eyes rolled.
Through the roll, through the gap between his thighs as he stood over her — framed between his legs, through the curtain — she saw Gareth.
His earphones were still in.
He was stroking his cock again, the third time, his face a map of the discomfort that came with pushing a body past its sensible limits, and he was looking at his screen with the focused, glazed expression of a young man who had stopped asking questions about what he was seeing and had started just ’watching.’
"’What a slutty,’" Gareth’s voice, muffled, from below, barely audible through the floors, "’porn video this is.’"
Jennifer’s eyes rolled back the rest of the way.
She gagged around the cock in her throat.
"’Mmmpph~—NNGF~—!’"
He grabbed her breasts.
Both of them. Full palms, squeezing the heavy flesh, using them as handles — literally, the way you use handles, to brace himself, to control the depth of each thrust — and through the tears that ran sideways from her eyes she could see his face above her, looking down with the warm, interested expression of a man watching something he finds genuinely pleasurable.
He was watching his own cock in her neck.
The visible ridge of the head, moving up and down the column of her throat, each thrust making the outline press outward against the skin and then recede.
PAH. PAH. PAAAH.
His hips against her face.
His balls on her nose.
"’MMMPHH~—NNGHFF~—HHMMF~!!’"
He came again.
In her mouth. In her throat, specifically — past the point where she could do anything about the direction — and the warmth of it filled the space his cock had just occupied and ran where it ran, and she was ’dying’, her vision tunneling, her lungs empty, her chest burning with the specific bright pain of a body that has been given no air for too long—
And then the warmth arrived.
Different warmth. Not his seed. ’Internal’, from nowhere, from everywhere, spreading through her chest and down her arms and into her ruined thighs like heated water poured through the center of her — healing warmth, ’restoring’ warmth, the same warmth she had been receiving all day without knowing the name for it — and the tunnel in her vision widened.
She could breathe.
She could breathe and her lungs weren’t burning anymore and her throat, which should have been wrecked, felt — not fine, but ’functional’, the damage quietly undone by something that had no business being possible.
She blinked.
He withdrew his cock slowly.
The slick, wet drag of it retreating from her mouth, the last inch crossing her lips, the cool air hitting the skin it had left — and she lay there on the edge of her own bed looking up at the ceiling of her own bedroom and gasped.
One breath.
Two.
He looked down at her.
The state of her — tears running, lips bruised from the bite, throat still working, breasts marked by his hands, cum and her own fluid pooled beneath her on the sheets — and he surveyed it with the mild, satisfied expression of a man looking at something he built.
"’You really think,’" he said, warm and entirely calm, "’that I would let you get exhausted before the night is over.’"
She stared at the ceiling.
"’Without destroying your body properly first.’"
The tears fell.
She didn’t sob. She just ’cried’, the quiet kind, the kind that happens when the body has run out of volume and is producing tears as pure information, as documentation of state.
"’You’re a monster.’"
She said it flat. Factual. The voice of a woman filing a report.
He looked at her for a moment.
Then he lifted his cock.
And slapped her cheek with it.
Once.
Twice.
The soft, wet impact of it landing on her tear-wet skin — not painful, just ’present’, just ’deliberate’, the casual claim of a man marking territory that has already been marked every other way available.
"’And you,’" he said, ’"are this monster’s new cock sleeve.’"
He tilted his head.
"’Hot bitch.’"
Jennifer lay on her own bed in her own bedroom and looked at the ceiling and listened to the sounds of her son below, stroking his cock for the third time, unaware that the woman on his impossible screen was his mother, unaware that the sounds coming through the ceiling were hers.
The pink insignia on her belly pulsed, warm and patient.
She didn’t look at it.
She looked at the ceiling.
"’Someone,’" she said, to nobody, very quietly, "’please help me.’"