Free Web NovelChapter 304: Chapter 304- Humping the Plump Lady
The sound came out of her in the gap, involuntary, the breath she’d been holding through the last sequence of his tongue released all at once.
Her lips were swollen. Wet. Still parted.
He looked at her face for one second — at the damp hair stuck to her temples, the tear tracks on her cheeks, the bitten-red mouth, the expression of a woman trying very hard to maintain a position that her body had stopped cooperating with — and then his hand slid off her boob and moved downward.
Over the curve of the pregnancy.
Down the soft skin of her lower belly.
Between her legs.
His fingers found the hair first.
Dense. Dark. Fully grown, the four months of untrimmed growth pressing against his palm in a thick, coarse tangle, the curls wet from the shower water and matted slightly at the roots. His fingers pushed into it — not through it yet, just against it, his palm pressing flat against the whole of it with a slow, deliberate pressure that pressed the mound beneath.
Her thighs clamped.
Immediately, completely, both legs closing with the specific reflex of a woman whose body has suddenly and belatedly realized where the situation has been heading and has decided ’now’ is the moment to intervene.
"’Hn—’"
"Open."
"I am ’not’—"
His fingers curled into the hair and ’pulled.’
Not viciously. Precisely. A short, sharp upward tug of the pubic hair between his fingers, the roots giving way to the pull with a bright, stinging bite that shot directly from the nerve endings at her mound straight up her spine and detonated somewhere between surprise and something considerably less categorizable.
"’HYAAK—!’"
The sound tore out of her.
Loud. Raw. Completely uncontrolled — the yelp of a body that has received a stimulus it wasn’t braced for, the organized thought she’d been building dissolving instantly in the sting of it, her hips jolting upward in the tub water, her thighs ’opening’ with the jolt rather than closing further, the reflex going entirely the wrong direction.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His hand moved between her legs in the second her thighs opened, his fingers finding the lips of her pussy through the wet hair — the puffy labia, full and soft and ’warm’, warmer than the shower water, the specific warmth of blood and sensitivity — and pressed.
"’Ngh — nn — stop—’"
"I’m not stopping."
His middle finger pressed between the lips.
The hair parted around it as he moved deeper, the coarse wet curls dragging against the backs of his fingers as he pushed inward, finding the cleft and following it downward to where the lips were softest, where the heat was concentrated, where four months of no contact had left everything oversensitive and swollen and completely unprepared for this.
The first press of his fingertip against her clit made her entire body jerk.
"’AAHNGH—!’"
Her back came off the tub surface.
Both shoulders lifting, her spine arching, her pregnant belly rising with the motion and then dropping back as the arch peaked and her body fell against the porcelain again, the jolt sending water splashing at the sides of the tub.
He kept his finger exactly where it was.
Moving in a slow, small circle.
She was shaking.
Not from the cold — the bathroom was warm, the shower still running, the steam still building. From the specific, humiliating, undeniable shaking of a body that has been completely celibate for over a year and has just had a finger pressed against the most sensitive point it owns.
"’Nnn — hn — I said stop—’"
"You said stop three minutes ago," he said. "Your hips didn’t get the message."
Her hips were moving.
She realized it at the same time he said it — the slow, rolling forward motion of her pelvis against his finger, completely involuntary, her body chasing the pressure in the small circles he was making while her mouth continued to assemble objections.
"’I’m not — I’m not doing that—’"
"You are."
His finger pushed lower.
Past the clit, following the lips downward, finding the entrance — ’not entering,’ just pressing there, the fingertip against the closed, tight, completely untouched opening of a woman who had never—
Her hips froze.
Every muscle in her lower body locking simultaneously, the chain reaction of a nervous system that has just received a proximity alert at the one location it has spent its entire life protecting.
"’Don’t—’"
"I know," he said.
His voice dropped.
She looked at him.
His face was close — above hers, the shower water catching in his hair and running down his jaw, his expression carrying the same assessment quality from before but with something underneath it now that wasn’t quite warmth and wasn’t quite patience and was something between the two.
"I know," he said again. Quieter. "I’m not going there."
His finger moved back upward.
To the clit.
And ’pushed.’
"’HIIEENGH—!!’"
The cry went fully uncontrolled — not the compressed muffled protests of before, not the bitten-off sounds she’d been managing, a real cry, high and cracked and nakedly overwhelmed, her legs spreading further in the water, her hips pressing upward into his hand with a complete abandonment of the position she’d been maintaining.
His other hand found her boob again.
Moved to the nipple.
Pinched.
"’AANH—!’"
The pinch and the circling finger arrived simultaneously and her nervous system tried to process both and managed neither, her back arching off the tub again and this time staying arched, her belly rising and trembling with the pregnancy’s weight, her boobs swinging with the arch, the pinched nipple dragging against his fingers as the flesh moved.
He twisted it.
Gently. Precisely.
"’HNNK — nn — ’please’—’"
The word came out before she could stop it.
She heard it herself and her face burned — the specific burn of hearing your own mouth produce the exact opposite of the word you’d been intending to produce, the please that was not please stop but please something else entirely, something she wasn’t going to name out loud.
He pushed a finger inside her.
One finger. Barely — just past the entrance, just enough to press against the tight, clenching resistance of a body that had never had anything there, the give of her walls against the intrusion sending a sound out of her throat that she’d never heard herself make.
"’Aaangh — hnn — hhnngh—’"
Round and rolling and overlapping, each one catching the next, her hips moving without instruction — forward into his hand, the pregnant belly swaying with the motion, the swell of it trembling, the skin over the dome flushed now from the steam and the heat.
The water in the tub rippled.
Not from her legs.
From the energy.
The ambient energy of the bathroom — the steam, the heat running through the shower pipes, the electrical field in the walls — beginning to shift frequency, beginning to attune to her, beginning to gather at her skin in the first stage of conversion. The air around the tub surface shimmered once, the faintest nova precursor, the color of it amber bleeding toward white at the edges.
He felt it.
His fingers pulled out of her.
Found the hair.
’Pulled.’
"’KYAAAH—!!’"
The nova collapsed.
The gathered energy dissolved back into ambient as her focus shattered, the yelp tearing every thread of concentration from the conversion attempt in one bright, stinging second, her hips jerking forward and her thighs slapping against his hand and her hands flying to his arms and gripping.
He chuckled.
Low. Warm. The chuckle of a man who has thought about contingencies and is pleased to find they work.
"’You—’" She was breathing hard. Her hair was plastered to her face. "You ’pulled’ my—"
"Yes." ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com
"’That hurts—’"
"It also works." He looked at her with the assessment expression. "Don’t try that again."
She wanted to say something devastating.
She had nothing.
Her pussy was throbbing. Her nipple was still stinging from the pinch. The pulled hair was still sending aftershocks up her spine in small, fading waves. Her pregnant belly was trembling with her breathing and her boobs were rising and falling with the same rhythm, the dark nipples stiff and visibly swollen from everything they’d been through in the last several minutes.
He moved.
His body shifted above her — not getting off, not stepping away. Repositioning. His hips moving over her belly, his cock dropping onto the swell of the pregnancy with a soft, heavy contact, the shaft lying along the dome of her belly, the warmth of it pressing into the taut skin there.
He pushed his hips forward.
The shaft dragged across the surface of her pregnant belly — forward, the skin pulling slightly under the friction, the heavy cock sliding from the lower curve of the belly upward toward her navel, the head pressing into the dome of it.
"’Wh—what are you—’"
Back.
The hips pulling back, the shaft dragging in reverse, his balls swinging forward with the motion and settling against the lower curve of her pregnancy, the coarse skin of the sac warm and rough against the stretched belly skin.
"’STOP—’"
Forward again.
PAH—
The slap of his hips against her belly fat, soft and wet and loud in the tiled bathroom, the belly jiggling from the impact, the whole swell of the pregnancy bouncing once before settling, his cock dragging up the surface again toward her navel while his balls rolled warm and heavy against the bottom.
"’Hngh—!!’"
PAH— PAH—
"’NNNGH — HHN—!!’"
