Chapter 379 - The Only Way to Save Your Son
Raven chuckled.
The sound came from directly behind her ear — warm, low, the specific amusement of a man who has just been handed a sentence that tells him exactly where the boundaries are and therefore exactly where to press.
"What not do," he said, the words shaped like a question and delivered like anything but.
His hand kneaded.
The full, generous weight of her ass compressed and released under his palm — the thick, juicy flesh giving easily, shaped by his strong grip, the soft, meaty clap of her heavy cheeks through the thin skirt fabric — and he worked it the way he worked everything, with the patient, unhurried attention of a man who has decided this fat ass belongs to him and is confirming the fact by squeezing and spreading the plump globes like dough.
His fingers found the hem.
Slid it upward.
The cool kitchen air arrived on the backs of her thighs in increments, the fabric rising past the curve of her ass and bunching at her waist, and he looked at what the skirt had been covering with the same warm, proprietary interest he’d been applying to her all day.
Her panty was ruined.
The fabric — soaked through entirely, drenched in thick, sticky cunt juice, the dark cotton clinging obscenely to every swollen contour, translucent and plastered against the fat, hairy lips of her pussy that had been drooling continuously since approximately seven in the morning and showed no signs of stopping — pressed tightly against a cunt that was visibly pulsing, the dark bush matted and glistening.
He pressed his fingers over it.
Just the flat of his fingers, through the soaked fabric, over the swollen, hairy pussy that twitched and leaked immediately at the contact, smearing her warm slime across the material.
Jennifer’s knuckles went white around her cup.
She did not make a sound.
She was looking at her son’s sleeping face and she was not making a sound.
His fingers moved.
Inward. Into the thick, soft crack of her ass — his hand navigating the warm, familiar territory with the ease of a man who had spent the day learning this body’s topography — until his fingertip rested over the puckered, tight ring that clenched immediately at the contact, the wrinkled little hole fluttering like it remembered him.
It clenched and then twitched hard.
She felt it happen — the involuntary clap of her own fat ass cheeks squeezing greedily around his hand, the tight ring tightening and then releasing in the helpless, animal tell of a body that had been introduced to anal and had not stopped thinking about it, her shithole winking against his touch.
"Twitching," he said.
Not mockery. Observation. The voice of a man reading a dial.
"You already know how it feels."
"I know how much it hurts." She said it to Gareth’s sleeping face. Flat. Precise. "I know exactly how much—"
"Due to your son arriving," he said, his fingertip pressing slightly, not entering, just present against the greedy little ring, "I wasn’t even able to test it properly."
Her whole body shuddered.
The shudder ran from the point of contact outward — through her hips, up her spine, arriving at the back of her skull as a heat she had no clean name for — and her ass cheeks clenched again around his hand and then released, the fat globes jiggling heavily.
"This is wrong." Her voice was still level. Still managed. "I just—"
"You still don’t believe me." The mild disappointment of it. Not hurt — curiosity, the tone of a man examining a datum that doesn’t fit his model. "Even after the ability."
She looked at her hand.
She hadn’t meant to. Her eyes had moved before the instruction arrived, pulled by something that knew where to look — and there it was.
The mark.
The small, luminous character inscribed on the back of her left hand — not visible in normal light, only in the particular quality of attention it demanded — pulsing once as her eyes found it, confirming its own existence with the warm patience of something that has been waiting to be noticed.
"What did you call it," she said.
"Dreamwalker."
The word landed.
She felt it land — the specific weight of a name that fit, that described the shape of what she’d done in the kitchen when she’d pressed her son’s eyelids closed with a thought — and her body, which had apparently been waiting for the name too, produced a fresh, thick wave of heat low in her belly and between her thighs, her cunt gushing another slippery flood into her already ruined panties that she refused to acknowledge and could not stop.
His finger slid under the waistband of her panty.
The fabric shifted sideways.
Her bare ass, exposed to the kitchen air, and his fingertip now finding the ring directly — warm skin on warm skin, the callus of his pad pressing against the tight, twitching entrance — and she felt her body do it again.
Open.
Not wide. Not willingly. But the gap — the small, honest give of flesh that has been worked and is not entirely unwilling to be worked again, the three-inch introduction she’d received earlier today leaving an impression her body was apparently referencing now, her shithole already remembering the stretch — was present.
His middle finger entered slowly.
One inch.
Two.
She exhaled through her nose in a thin, controlled stream.
"The only way," he said, his voice dropping to the intimate register he used when he was saying something that was both true and convenient, his lips near enough to the back of her neck that she felt the warm shift of air with each word, "to protect your son in that world—"
His finger reached its full length.
"—is to become strong enough for it yourself."
The knuckle of his hand pressed against the outside of her ass — buried to the base, filling the tight ring around the full width of his middle finger — and her inner walls, which had opinions, clenched around it with the same devoted, involuntary grip they’d been applying to various parts of this man all day, her asshole milking his digit like a hungry mouth.
"And for that," he continued, the finger still, just present, just reminding her of the fact of its location, "you need me. The power I give you — I have the key to make it more potent. Stronger."
She felt her body flinching.
The small, internal quiver of a woman whose mind was running one calculation and whose body was running a different one, and the two calculations did not agree on the output, her dripping cunt spasming emptily.
"You’re not lying." She said it like a question and meant it like one. "This isn’t—"
"Trust me."
The finger shifted slightly.
The motion was minimal — a small, deliberate rotation, the fingertip finding the inner wall and applying the kind of considered attention that her body had learned today to react to immediately, stirring her sensitive anal passage.
Her pussy clenched around nothing.
She felt the hot drip of herself sliding thickly down the inside of her thigh, a long, sticky trail of cunt slime.
"This is the only way to save your son, trust me."