Chapter 325 - Caging the Daughter to Pound Mother
She cried.
The tears falling from her eyes onto the floor of the room, her hands flat against the stone, her body trying to make itself smaller against the wall.
Outside the frosted window of the small house on the edge of the village, the ice floor was cold and dark.
And somewhere across it, in a wooden apartment that smelled of coffee and demon and milk, a man sat on a couch with two women on his legs and his hands full of their breasts and thought about a zone master named Vekar.
His jaw moved once.
"When," he said quietly, "did you say the village is reachable from here?"
The succubus looked at him.
At his face.
At the expression on it — not the warm, lazy expression of the last several hours. The other one. The warehouse expression. The one she’d seen when he snapped his fingers and converted water to fog and looked at the labyrinth notification in his peripheral vision with the flat eyes of a man processing an acquisition.
"Tomorrow," she said carefully.
"Tomorrow," he repeated.
He looked at the window.
His hands were still on both their breasts.
His cock was still being stroked by four hands between his thighs.
But his eyes were at the window.
At the dark outside.
At whatever was happening in the village that the ice floor’s cold pressed against in perfect, indifferent silence.
Soha felt the change in his hands.
The grip had not softened — was still warm, still present. But the attention behind it had gone somewhere else, the way attention goes when a mind has found a problem to solve and is beginning to solve it.
She looked at his face.
At the flat, direct, completely unmoved expression.
She looked at the succubus.
The succubus was looking at the same expression with the face of a woman who has been waiting for someone for a very long time and has just recognized the shape of the thing she was waiting for, the recognition arriving all at once without preamble.
Her tail curled.
Slowly. Up his calf. To his knee. Resting there.
"His men," she said. Her voice very quiet. "Are in the village tonight. He has seven."
"I know," he said.
He didn’t ask how she knew.
She didn’t ask how he knew.
Soha pressed her pregnant belly against his side.
"You’re not going tonight," she said.
He looked at her.
"Tonight," she said, "you sleep."
A beat.
"How about this... I fuck you both first?"
.
.
.
.
.
.
The girl pressed harder against the wall.
Her hands flat against the stone, her fingers white, her knees knocking together so hard she could hear the sound of them — the small, rapid clack of her own bones shaking against each other. The seven cocks in the room were at various stages of hardness, each one pointing toward her from the circle of men, the smell of them thick in the small space, the air heavy with the stink of unwashed hairy balls and the greasy sweat of men who had not bathed in days.
Vekar’s eight inches hung thick in his fat hand, the dark head swollen, the slit dripping a slow bead of pre-cum that fell to the floor between his feet.
He stepped closer.
The girl’s breath came out in a thin, broken "Hah— hah—" sound, her chest jerking with each exhale, her dark eyes wide and fixed on the thing in his hand. She had never seen one. Not like this. Not in a room full of them. The reality of the cocks — the veining, the coarse hair at the bases, the heavy swing of the balls beneath each shaft — pressed against her with a weight that made her stomach twist.
"Please—" Her voice barely carried. "Please, I don’t — don’t—"
The door shattered inward.
Not the careful removal of the first time — the violent kick of a boot striking the center of it, the wood splintering, the frame cracking, the cold air from outside rushing into the room with the figure that came through it.
"LEAVE MY DAUGHTER ALONE!"
The voice was female.
Thick. Full. Carrying the raw, cracked scream of a mother who has heard the noise from her house and has come running with nothing in her hands but the desperate certainty that she will die before she lets them touch the girl.
She stood in the broken doorway.
A thick woman. The commoner’s dress — a long skirt, faded blue, wrapped around wide hips that had carried weight and life, the fabric straining across an enormous ass and a belly that had softened with age and childbirth. Her blouse was tight across tits that were massive and heavy and low, the dark nipple outlines visible through the worn fabric, the whole of her body built for endurance and warmth and the kind of thickness that came from years of feeding others before herself.
Her face was the face of the girl — twenty years older, weathered, the dark eyes carrying the same shape but with the lines of exhaustion and fear drawn deep around them.
She stepped into the room.
Her hands were shaking. She held them out — palms toward the men, toward Vekar, the gesture of a woman who had nothing to use but her own body as a shield.
"Please," she said. Her voice cracked on the word. "She is young. You cannot have her. Forgive her. Please. Forgive."
She turned toward Vekar.
Her knees hit the floor.
The skirt spreading around her thick thighs, the fabric riding up to show the heavy calves, the dark hair on her legs, the worn boots she had run in.
"She is your daughter," she said.
The room went quiet.
Vekar’s hand on his cock stopped moving.
He blinked.
"What?"
His voice came out flat. The flat of a man who has been accused of something in the middle of an act and is trying to determine whether the accusation is a joke.
The woman on the floor looked up at him.
Her thick body trembling, her enormous tits heaving under the tight blouse with each breath, the dark eyes fixed on his face with the desperate, burning focus of someone who had nothing left to use but the truth.
"She is your daughter," she repeated. Louder. Her voice cracking. "You fucked me nineteen years ago. Don’t you remember?"
Vekar stared at her.
His fat jaw moved. His thick fingers tightened around his cock. His eyes moved over her face — trying to find something, some recognition, some fragment of a woman he had once used and discarded.
His balls shifted in his sac.
He looked at the girl against the wall.
Then back at the woman on the floor.
"Oh, shit," he said.
His voice was not surprised. It was — annoyed. The irritation of a man who has been interrupted during a pleasant activity and has been given information that complicates the activity without making it impossible.
"Yet another daughter here," he said.
He shook his head.
The fat of his neck wobbling with the motion, his belly pressing against the front of his coat, his cock still thick and hard in his hand.
"I have thrown that virgin away," he said. He gestured vaguely at the woman with the hand not holding his cock. "We are fucking that bitch now."
He turned back toward the girl.
The girl against the wall made a sound.
"No—"
She pushed off the wall.
Her small body moving — not toward the door, toward her mother. Her hands reaching out, her dark eyes streaming, her voice coming out in a high, broken cry.
"No, leave my mother alone! Don’t touch her—"
One of the men moved.
The scarred one. The one with the bat on his shoulder. He stepped across the room with three long strides, his cock swinging heavy between his thighs, his hand reaching out and closing around the girl’s upper arm.
"Got you," he said.
He lifted her.
Her feet left the floor. She kicked — small, frantic kicks against his legs, her hands beating against his chest, her voice screaming.
"LET GO — LET GO OF ME — MOTHER—"
He threw her.
Not at the wall — toward the corner, where a small iron cage sat against the stone, its bars rusted, its door hanging open. He tossed her through the gap with a single, easy motion, her body hitting the cage floor with a dry rattle of metal.
The door slammed.
A padlock clicked.
The girl scrambled to the bars.
Her small hands wrapping around the iron, her face pressed against the gaps, her eyes wide and streaming, her voice screaming.
"MOTHER—"