Free Web NovelChapter 517: Chapter 517- Edda’s Arrival in Forest
Her whole body was shaking with the rhythm of his hips, the thick flesh of her ass clapping back against him with each thrust, the sound of it mixing with the waterfall, the pink insignia on her own pussy glowing under the water at the pool’s edge.
He broke the kiss.
His mouth left the other woman’s lips with the wet sound of separation, her lower lip dragging between his teeth for one more second before releasing.
She hung in the water.
Her lips swollen and wet. Her eyes not quite focusing. Her small tits heaving. The insignia warm against her inner thigh.
He looked at her.
He looked at Rika bent over the rock, screaming, her thick ass taking everything he gave it.
He looked at the sky.
The last red light going purple at the horizon. The stars beginning at the edges. The waterfall mist catching the early dark and holding it.
He thought, with the simple satisfaction of a demon in possession of an evening and everything in it:
’Fuck them until the night comes.’
His hips snapped forward.
PHAAAAACK—
"AAAAAAAANGHH~!!!!"
’After that—’
He looked at the treeline. At the path that led back through the trees to the training ground and, eventually, to a woman who had spent all day not-thinking-about this waterfall and was now walking toward it in a skirt she had accepted from the hands of her students.
A dragon slayer.
Thick. Old enough to have lived everything she knew. Old enough that the body beneath the years had a particular quality — the density of a woman built by decades of doing difficult things, nothing soft about her except where she had decided to allow it.
’—the GILF.’
.
.
.
.
.
.
.The forest had gone dark at the edges.
Not fully dark — the moon was early and large, climbing the eastern sky with the particular brightness of a full moon in late summer, laying silver over the canopy and breaking through in patches where the branches thinned. The path was visible in those patches. Between them it was shadow, and Edda moved through both with the unhurried certainty of a woman who has walked every kind of terrain for fifty years and does not need to see clearly to know where her feet are.
The skirt moved against her thighs.
This was the central problem.
Not the darkness. Not the path. The skirt — the dark fabric, the silkiness of it, the way it caught the air with every step and moved against the bare skin of her legs in a way that trousers did not and had never been intended to do.
She pulled it down.
For the fourth time since leaving the training ground.
The skirt was not short. On a different woman — a narrower woman, a woman whose hips and ass had not been produced by five decades of hard physical work — it would have been modest. Knee-length, nothing remarkable.
On Edda, it was a negotiation.
The fabric was losing.
Her ass filled it. That was the simple truth of it — the full, dense, muscular mass of her rear pressing the fabric outward with every step, the silkiness pulling tight across each cheek, tenting at the back with a thoroughness that made the hemline climb an inch every twenty steps regardless of how many times she pulled it back down.
She pulled it down.
The hem settled at mid-thigh.
She took six steps.
The hem rose to four inches above the knee.
She pulled it down.
She breathed through her nose.
She thought: ’the dragon told me to wear a skirt. He did not say anything about it fitting.’
She pulled it down again.
The moonlight came through a gap in the canopy and laid itself across the path ahead, and in that light, on a breath of warm night air moving through the trees from the direction of the waterfall— frёewebnoѵēl.com
The skirt lifted.
Not dramatically. Six inches. The hem coming up at the front with the casual indifference of fabric doing what fabric does in wind.
Her pussy was bare.
She had known it was bare. She had been knowing it was bare for the entire walk. The absence of anything between the night air and her flesh was not new information, she had been managing this information for twenty minutes.
But knowing it and having a gust of air remind her of it were two different things.
She clapped the hem down with both hands.
She stood very still.
The wind moved on.
She looked down at her hands pressed against the front of her thighs, holding the skirt in place.
Her white hair — the neat, close-cropped patch of it at her mound — had been visible for approximately one second to the moonlight and the empty forest and absolutely no one.
She was still embarrassed.
Her thighs pressed together.
The motion pressed the fabric inward and the outline of her labia — full, soft, the particular puffiness of a woman whose body had maintained itself despite years of use — was visible through the silkiness for the two seconds it took her to release the pressure.
She released the pressure.
She breathed.
"Those women," she said, to no one.
The forest did not respond.
She walked. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com
Her underboobs swung with each stride.
This was the second problem, subordinate to the first but persistent — the complete absence of any support structure for her tits, which were large enough that the absence was noticeable to her own body with every step. The fabric of the skirt was all that had been provided. She had pulled it up in an attempt to use the waistband for something and had looked at herself doing this and had stopped and put it back.
Her tits moved.
The silkiness caught the moonlight when she passed through bright patches and her nipples were visible through it — hard from the night air, the stiff peaks pressing against the fabric.
She pulled the skirt down.
She moved through a dark patch between two large oaks and her eyes adjusted and she looked at her own hands and thought about what she was doing.
She was walking through a forest at night to meet a dragon.
In a skirt.
With no undergarments of any kind.
To be — she did not finish the thought in clear language. She had not been finishing it in clear language since midday when he had told her and she had heard it and her body had done something that she had categorized as irrelevant and had been recategorizing as irrelevant every forty minutes since.
She was a virgin.
This was not a circumstance she had planned to maintain indefinitely. It was a circumstance that had accumulated through years of being the kind of woman that men found intimidating before they found her attractive, the kind of woman whose arms were bigger than most men’s and whose fighting record was longer than most men’s lives. The kind of woman who had decided, at some point in her thirties, that the logistics of the situation were not worth managing and had not revisited the decision.
She was revisiting the decision now.
At night.
In a forest.
Walking toward the sound of water.
She pulled the skirt down.
She was jumping through the trees before the conscious decision to do so had fully formed — fifty years of muscle memory taking over from a mind that was currently occupied with other things, her body finding the first branch before her thoughts had caught up, her thick legs launching her upward with the ease of a woman who has been training her body every day for longer than some people have been alive.
The canopy received her.
