Free Web NovelChapter 518: Chapter 518- Too Old for All of This
She moved through it.
Branch to branch, her hands finding the next grip before releasing the last, her thick body translating through the upper canopy with the particular grace of someone who is at home in it — not fast, not showy, the solid, efficient movement of a veteran.
The skirt was a problem.
It moved with her. Specifically, it moved against her — the hem rising with each jump, the fabric doing what the fabric had been doing since she put it on but now with additional wind assistance, each launch upward sending it to her waist.
Her pussy was bare to the moonlight on every jump.
She pulled it down on every landing.
The white hair of her mound flashed silver in the gaps between canopy patches, illuminated and gone, illuminated and gone, in rhythm with her movement through the trees. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm
Her tits.
Her tits were doing things that tits do when a large woman moves through a forest canopy without a bra — swinging out on each reach, coming back in on each landing, the underboob visible below the fabric’s hem when her arms were fully extended, the weight of them shifting with each direction change.
She was aware of this.
She pulled the skirt down on the next landing and held it against her thighs and looked at the waterfall, which was now visible below through the trees — the white of the falling water catching the moonlight, the mist rising silver, the pool below it—
She heard it.
First the waterfall.
Then under the waterfall—
"AAANGH~!!! PLEASE— PLEASE— SLOW— MASTER—"
"Mmmph~!! NNGHH~!!"
Two voices.
Edda went still on the branch.
Her hands were on the bark on either side of her. Her skirt had risen again and she was not pulling it down because her hands were occupied and her attention was no longer on the skirt.
She listened.
"KYAAANGH~!!! SLOWER— IT’S TOO— AAANGH~!!!"
"Mmhh~!! MNGHH~!! PLEASE—"
Two women.
One voice thick and desperate — the voice of someone who has been overwhelmed and is still overwhelmed and is not finding resolution. One voice smaller, muffled, the sounds coming out around something, or into something.
PHACK PHACK PHAAAAACK—
The flesh sound carried up through the mist and the moonlight and the waterfall noise and the forest canopy like it had been thrown.
Edda had killed things in her life. She had fought things that most people did not survive encountering. She had spent fifty years calibrating her body’s responses to threatening stimuli into something useful rather than something paralyzing.
Her body was producing a response.
It was not a fighting response.
She pulled the skirt down.
She moved to the next branch.
And the next.
And the next, descending now, the waterfall growing louder, the voices clearer, the flesh sounds separating themselves from the background noise of the fall and the mist and the night insects.
"MASTER— PLEASE— TOO DEEP— I—"
"Mmmph~!! MMNGHH~!!!"
She reached the last branch before the pool.
The moonlight was full here — the clearing around the waterfall open to the sky, the silver of it laying across the water and the mist and the two women on the rock shelf at the pool’s edge.
Edda looked.
Her mouth opened.
She closed it.
She looked again.
The rock shelf at the waterfall’s rim: two women, one above the other, both bare, both wet, their hair plastered to their skin, their bodies shaking with the rhythm being imposed on them from behind.
Behind them: a man.
Not standing. Pressed against both of them simultaneously — his hips driving, the motion of it visible even from the branch, the slap of it audible over the waterfall, his hands on the hips of the lower woman while the upper woman was held against him by one arm across her chest, her small tits visible above the arm, her head thrown back.
He was inside both of them.
Edda’s brain offered this information carefully, in sections, the way a body presents information it suspects the mind is not prepared to receive all at once.
He was inside both of them. At the same time. One above the other, the lower woman against the rock and the upper woman against the lower, his cock driving upward into one while the other received the impact of each thrust from below, both of their bodies shaking together, both of their voices filling the clearing.
PAH PAH PHACK—
"AAANGH~!!! SLOWER— PLEASE— MASTER—"
"Mmhh~!! NNGHH~!! PLEASE~!!"
Their hands were linked.
Edda noticed this last. The lower woman’s hands — large, familiar hands, the hands of a woman Edda recognized — reaching backward and finding the upper woman’s hands and gripping them, the two sets of fingers interlaced on the rock shelf with the knuckle-whitening grip of two women anchoring themselves to each other while being thoroughly dismantled.
She knew the lower woman’s hands.
She knew the set of those shoulders. The thickness of that waist. The dark hair.
"Rika," she said.
Quietly. Not a shout. The flat, slightly horrified word of a woman identifying something she had not expected to identify.
Her eyes moved to the upper woman.
Smaller. Fine-boned. Dark hair. Small tits above the arm holding her. Her face turned sideways, cheek against the back of Rika’s head, her expression—
Her expression was the expression Edda had seen on the face of Rika’s husband.
On the face of Rika’s ’husband.’
With ’tits.’
"And—" Edda stopped.
She looked at the tits.
She looked at Rika.
She looked at the man between them — his hips driving, his face turned slightly upward toward the sky, the moonlight catching his jaw, the silver of it laying across the demon-warmth of his skin.
The dragon.
PHAAAAACK—
"KYAAAAAANGHH~!!!! AAAAAANGH~!!!!"
Both voices at once. The sound of it hitting the treeline and the mist and the moonlight and the branch where Edda was standing with one hand on the bark and the other holding her skirt down at her hip.
She looked at him.
He was not looking at her.
He was looking at the sky above the waterfall, his hips maintaining their pace, the two women on the rock shelf taking everything he was giving them with the particular helpless commitment of bodies that have been convinced by something deeper than thought.
His expression was the expression of a man who is somewhere he intends to be.
And then — without turning his head, without changing his expression, without any indication that he had done anything at all — he smiled.
Not at the women.
At the treeline.
At the specific branch from which Edda was watching.
Edda’s hand tightened on the bark.
He had known she was there.
He had been knowing she was there.
PAH PAH PHACK—
"AANGH~!! PLEASE— PLEASE— TOO DEEP—"
"Mmhh~!! MNNGHH~!! MASTER—"
Edda looked at the two women. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓
She looked at him.
She looked at the two women again — the way their bodies had stopped fighting and started receiving, the way the ’please slow down’ was running underneath a continuous moan that said something entirely different, the way their hands were linked on the rock with the grip of two people clinging to each other in a current.
She thought: ’I should leave.’
She thought: ’I am too old for this.’
She thought: ’I have not moved.’
The wind moved through the canopy above her.
Her skirt rose.
She did not pull it down.
The white hair of her mound was bare to the moonlight for several seconds while she stood on the branch looking at the waterfall pool below and the two women and the man between them who was still looking at the sky but whose smile had not moved.
Her thighs pressed together.
The insignia that was not yet on her skin seemed to pulse anyway — preemptive, anticipatory, her body understanding something about what the evening was moving toward before her mind had officially accepted it.
She breathed.
She said — quietly, to the moonlight and the waterfall and herself:
"Isn’t that Rika." A pause. Her eyes moved to the small woman above. "And her husband."
The words came out with the flat delivery of a woman who knows they are not accurate and is using them anyway because the accurate version requires restructuring too many things at once.
PHAAAAACK—
"HIIEEENGHH~!!!! AAAAAANGHH~!!!"
Two voices. Two insignias glowing pink through the waterfall mist. Two women with their hands linked on the cold stone, both past begging for slow and simply taking it now, the sounds coming from them no longer words but the pure, continuous output of bodies that have been thoroughly claimed.
Edda stood on her branch.
She held her skirt.
She looked at the man whose smile had still not moved.
She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth.
She thought, for the last time, the thought she had been thinking since midday:
’I am too old for this... would I be able to withstand dragon’s long thing?’
