Chapter 375- Take My Seed
The rope had done its work.
Both her knees were bound in the frog position — ankles tied to her own thighs, legs folded and held wide by nothing but the cord and the bruised, overworked muscles that had stopped arguing about posture hours ago.
Her hands were still behind her back.
The panty was still hooked over her nose — the waistband stretched across the bridge, the fabric pulling her nostrils wide, the smell of herself pressed directly against the center of her face in a way that had become its own specific, unrelenting humiliation.
She was on her stomach.
Or she had been. The position had shifted enough times tonight that her body had stopped keeping track of what counted as up.
What remained constant was his cock.
He entered her ass from the side.
Not from behind — ’laterally’, his body angled across hers, the thick head pressing into the stretched ring from a direction her body had not anticipated, finding the entrance at an oblique angle that dragged every nerve along the inner wall in a way that had nothing to do with anything she’d experienced in the previous hours.
"’HIEEK~!! AAANGHH~!! W-WHAT— THE ANGLE— STOP—’"
The sound that came out of her was high and broken and hit the ceiling of her own bedroom and bounced back at her twice.
PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
"’AAAHH~!! NNGH~!! IT’S TWISTING— STOP— PLEASE—’"
Her ass clenched around him reflexively — the tight, fluttering grip of a hole that had been worked tonight past the point of its own records and was now simply responding, gripping, doing the only thing it knew how to do when something this large was inside it.
He twisted his cock.
An actual rotation of his hips, a slow clockwise grind that made the thick shaft drag its ridges against the inner walls in a sweeping circle, and the sound Jennifer made into her own panty-covered face was not a word and was not a moan and had no clean category.
"’HHNNGFF~!! MMPPHH~!! AAANGHH~!!’"
The bed shook.
Not slightly — ’shook’, the headboard hitting the wall in a steady rhythm that had been painting a mark on the paint for the last several minutes, the mattress springs doing their own percussion under the pace he’d set.
He rose to kneel directly over her.
His weight settling onto his own knees on either side of her body — containing her, the warmth of his thighs bracketing her hips — and one hand reached forward and found her breast.
Kneaded it.
The full, heavy flesh compressed between his fingers, his palm pressing into the soft weight of it, and milk — there was still milk, her body had not stopped — ran in a thin warm stream from the nipple down the back of his hand.
His other hand found her nose.
Pinched it shut.
"’MMF~!! NNGHFF~!! I CAN’T — BREATHE — LET GO — I CAN’T—’"
He increased his pace.
PAH! PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
"’MMMPPHH~!! HHMMF~!! NNNGFF~!! AAANGHFF~!!’"
Her ass clenched so hard around his cock that he made a sound — ’his’ sound, the first genuinely involuntary sound she’d heard from him all night, a low hiss pushed through his teeth — and she registered it with the distant, dizzy awareness of a woman who had run out of everything except the most basic sensory inputs.
He bit her shoulder.
The teeth closed over the muscle between her neck and her shoulder blade — not breaking skin, not needing to, the pressure alone sending a signal directly down her spine that arrived at the base of it as pure, undiluted ’heat.’
"’You like it.’" His voice against the bite. Low. Vibrating through the muscle his teeth were in. "’You will like it.’"
"’I DON’T — AAANGHH~!! — I CAN’T BREATHE — PLEASE — RAVEN — PLEASE—’"
The warmth arrived again.
She had learned the shape of it by now — the spreading, internal heat that moved through damaged places and left them functional — and she had still not found the name for it or the source, only that it arrived, and that it turned the screaming rawness of her body into something that ’burned’ differently.
Less like damage.
More like — she did not complete this thought.
Her mouth was hanging open.
She was breathing through it because his fingers were still on her nose and her body had found air the only way available, and the open mouth meant that every thrust was producing a sound that travelled without the usual buffer of dignity, raw and loud and carrying clearly through the floor to the room below.
"’AAAHH~!! AAANGHH~!! IT’S — IT’S TOO MUCH — STOP — SLOWER — PLEASE—’"
PAH! PAH! PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
Her hips had done something she was not proud of.
They had pushed back.
Incrementally, over the last sixty seconds, her bound-frog thighs had been pushing her ass backward into his thrust with a small, rhythmic insistence — ’going toward him’ — and she felt it happening and could not stop it and the tears ran harder because she could not stop it and kept going anyway.
He slammed forward.
One final, full-force drive that knocked the breath from her body and simultaneously knocked her body ’forward’ — the inertia of it carrying her across the sheet, his cock pulling free on the slide with a wet, audible ’pop’ that bounced off the walls — and she landed face-first into the pillow with her tied knees beneath her and her hands useless behind her back.
She lay there.
Breathing.
The air moved in and out of her open mouth and she breathed it and thought nothing for three full seconds.
Then his hands found her hips.
She was twisted.
Not roughly — ’efficiently’, the roll of a body that had been repositioned many times tonight and had learned not to resist the repositioning — and she was on her back, her tied knees pulled apart, her pussy exposed to the room and to him and to the air which hit it with the specific, unbearable sensitivity of flesh that had been worked all day.
He stood over her.
She looked up.
This was the view she would not be able to unfile — not ever, not in any future version of herself she might eventually reconstruct.
Him from below.
The six-pack of his stomach from this angle was a topography of shadow and light, the muscle ridges catching the bedside lamp, the line of dark hair below his navel leading to where his cock hung — still hard, still flushed, the crimson head tight and glistening with the evidence of everywhere it had been tonight.
The ’size’ of him from this angle.
The sheer, vertical fact of a man standing over a woman lying down, his cock aimed at her from above, his hands already moving toward her breasts — and she looked up and knew, with the bone-deep clarity that comes from a day of being educated, that she was small under this and she had no architecture left for pretending otherwise.
He climbed over her chest.
His knees on either side of her ribcage. His cock settling between her breasts — pressed into the valley of her cleavage — and his hands closed over the soft, heavy flesh from both sides and ’pressed.’
The weight of her breasts, compressed together, gripped around his shaft.
He stroked.
Once.
The head of his cock emerged from between her breasts near her chin and she turned her face and he thrust again and she turned her face the other way and he was not stopping.
He came.
The first rope hit her left breast directly.
The second hit the nipple.
The third ran across her collarbone and up toward her throat.
He kept stroking — the cock slapping against the soft flesh of her pressed-together breasts between ropes, the wet, heavy smack of it landing on milk-warm skin — and she cried, the tears running into her hair, and she watched it happen because her eyes were open and she could not make them close.
"’Your son,’" he said, looking down at her with the warm, unhurried voice of a man sharing an observation, "’drank milk from these tits once.’"
She made a sound.
"’Shouldn’t they also drink something.’"
He stroked the cock across her nipple.
The swollen, oversensitive flesh registered the impact and her whole body flinched — the involuntary full-body twitch of raw nerve endings — and more seed fell, directly onto the dark, hard peak of the nipple, running slow.
"’Take my seed.’" Still that voice. Warm. Final. "’Here.’"
"’Stop — stop — that’s — I hate you — stop—’"