fantasy novels Chapter 549 - 548- Marathon
Chapter 549 - 548- Marathon
At the room.At the four women in various states of arranged, occupied, and barely conscious — Eliantra and Helviana still chained together, lying face to face in the enforced intimacy of two women who had been joined at the most sensitive points of their bodies for several hours and had eventually stopped being embarrassed about it and simply been; the old maid on her back, glowing; Rehana against the headboard, her heavy breasts rising and falling with her breathing, her eyes closed, her hand resting on his thigh without her knowing it was there.
The night was not done.
He was not tired.
This, he had already known about himself — the incubus bloodline that his father’s side had declined to mention in polite company, the particular, rising energy that fed on exactly this, the physical state of a man who had been doing one sustained thing for hours and was operating at a higher level now than when he started.
He looked at the window.
Dark outside. But the quality of the dark had changed — the thick, settled darkness of deep night thinning at the very edges, the black becoming something closer to very dark blue at the horizon.
Not dawn. Not yet.
Close.
He looked at Rehana.
Her hand on his thigh.
Her breathing slow. Almost asleep.
He stood.
The bathing room.
The mansion’s large tub — stone, deep, fed from a cistern on the roof that had been filled and warmed by the staff before they’d been dismissed. The water had been warm this morning. It was cooler now but still tolerable, the kind of temperature that feels good after hours of heat.
He stepped in.
The water around his calves. His thighs. He settled, the water rising, the long exhale of a body entering water after sustained exertion — real, involuntary, the genuine sound of muscle releasing.
He looked at the door.
"Rehana."
His voice carried through the house.
Not loud. Simply placed at the right frequency to travel.
A pause.
The sound of movement in the bedroom. Slow, uncoordinated movement — the sound of a woman who was mostly asleep being returned to wakefulness by a voice she had been trained over the course of a night to respond to.
She appeared in the doorway.
Hair tangled. Eyes half-open. Her thick body carrying every mark of the night’s work — the faint red lines where his hands had gripped, the dried trails on her inner thighs, the stiff, heavy sway of her breasts as she walked.
She looked at the tub.
At him in it.
At the water.
"Master...?" The question in her voice was not ’why’ but ’where do you want me.’
He looked at her.
She understood.
She climbed in.
The water was dirty within two minutes.
Not from the tub — from them. From everything her body was still producing and releasing in the warm water, from the ongoing dissolution of the night’s evidence from both their skin, from the simple, honest fact of two bodies that had been doing one thing for a long time getting into water together.
He had her in the squatting position.
Her feet on the bottom of the tub. Her thick thighs spread, knees on either side of his hips, her heavy body lowered onto him — not her pussy this time. Her anal. The channel he had visited hours ago and was revisiting now with the comfortable, proprietary ease of a man returning to somewhere that was his.
She felt it.
"Ngh~— mnh~— haahh~—"
The half-conscious, barely-present sounds of a woman whose body was running on the residual training of the night rather than conscious participation — her anal opening around him with the practiced, surrendered ease of something that had been educated into compliance and had stopped fighting the education.
He grabbed her hair.
Pulled.
Her head came back. Her throat exposed. Her heavy breasts lurching upward with the pull, the milk-sore nipples pointing at the ceiling, the full undersides of her tits jiggling with the jolt.
His hips.
He started slowly.
The squat position in water — the resistance of the water against his movement, the way it changed the quality of each thrust, slowing the withdrawal and adding weight to the entry, the sound of water displaced with each push.
’Slap. Slap.’
The water around them disturbing. Rippling outward. Sloshing against the stone sides of the tub.
"Mnh~— haahh~— mas...ter~— mnh~—"
He accelerated.
PAH PAH!!
Water sloshed hard against both sides simultaneously.
"AANNGH~!! NGH~!! HAAHH~!!"
Her eyes were still half-closed. The barely-awake quality of her cries — not less genuine for the sleepiness, more genuine, the unedited sound of a woman whose defenses were completely down because she had stopped having defenses hours ago.
PAH PAH PAH!!
"AAAHH~!! NGH~!! MASTER—MY LOWER BODY—I CAN’T—FEEL MY LOWER BODY—HAAHH~!!"
He drove harder.
The squat position taking it — her thick thighs absorbing each thrust, her ass cheeks spreading and clapping against his hips under the water, the muffled, wet version of the sound that had been filling the bedroom all night, lower register, the water changing its character.
"I CAN’T FEEL—MASTER—I GENUINELY CANNOT FEEL—NGHH~!!! AAANGHH~!!!"
His hips blurred.
The rabbit pace finding him again — this body that had been doing this for hours and was not tired, the incubus inheritance running hot and continuous and genuinely interested in what was happening, his cock still fully hard, his balls still full, the particular, dark, rising energy of something that fed on exactly this circumstance being exactly this circumstance.
PAH PAH PAAH PAH PAH!!
"KYAAANGHH~!!! NGH~!! MY LEGS—MY LEGS ARE NUMB—MASTER—PLEASE—DON’T STOP—PLEASE—AAANGHH~!!!"
The water was sloshing over the sides of the tub now.
Falling on the stone floor in spreading puddles.
He was standing in a flood of it — the water level dropping as it displaced over the edges, the dirty, warm, murky water of the night pooling around the base of the tub, running between the floor tiles.
Her pussy.
From his angle — the water level below the junction of their bodies now, her pussy visible above the waterline, swollen and dark and soaking and not from the tub — urinating in a thin, continuous stream. Not from intent. From the total, comprehensive numbness of a lower body that had stopped receiving instructions from its owner. Her bladder simply releasing because the neural pathway to it was somewhere she could no longer reach.
The stream joining the water on the floor.
She didn’t react.
She couldn’t.
"Haahh— haahh— I’m— urinating— I can’t— stop— master—"
Not embarrassed.
Past embarrassed.
Simply reporting a thing that was happening to her body while her body was no longer her primary concern.
PAAH!! PAAH!!
"AAAAAANGHHHH~!!!! THE WATER—THE WATER IS COLD—AND YOUR COCK IS—NGH—NGH—AAAHH~!!!"
He pulled her hair harder.
Her head back further. Her throat fully exposed. Her heavy breasts pointing at the ceiling and bouncing with the impact of each thrust, the milk running down their sides in thin streams that joined the water.
The floor was soaked.
He was standing in a puddle of everything — bath water, her urine, her arousal, spilled milk, the comprehensive liquid evidence of a night’s worth of occupation.
He didn’t care.
He fucked her harder.
PAH PAH PAH PAH PHACK!!
"AAAHH~!! AAAHH~!! MY WHOLE BODY IS—MASTER—I CAN’T—I’M GOING TO—NGHH~!!!! AAAAAANGHHHH~!!!"