Free Web NovelChapter 520: Chapter 520- Taking Depth of a Dragon Slayer
A pause.
His eyes moved to the two broken women at the base of the rock shelf. Back to her.
"You have already seen how I work," he said.
Her mouth was dry.
Her thighs were wet.
She was aware of both of these things and was managing neither of them.
She looked at Rika.
Rika was unconscious. Her face peaceful in the particular way that only complete exhaustion produces. Her body showed the evidence of the day — the marks, the bruises, the complete collapse of every voluntary muscle — and she was breathing slowly and her expression was not pain.
She looked at the other woman.
Same.
Edda thought: ’if they are alive,’ and stopped the thought there because she did not want to follow it to its conclusion.
She looked at him.
Twelve inches of cock in the moonlight pointing at her with the patient certainty of something that has been adjusted for her body and is not going anywhere.
She took a step back.
On the branch. Her heel finding the bark behind her, her weight shifting back, her hands coming up.
She took another step back.
The skirt moved with her. The hem rose. The white hair of her mound flashed in the moonlight. She pulled the hem down with one hand without looking at it, her eyes still on him.
He was gone.
She blinked.
He was in front of her.
Not on the branch. The branch had not moved, no sound had moved through the canopy, no displacement of air had reached her. He was simply there — two feet away, the forest behind him, the waterfall behind her, and the twelve inches of his cock pressing against her belly through the skirt with the warm, blunt certainty of something that has crossed four meters of moonlit air to stand in front of her.
Her heart beat.
She heard it.
She was fairly certain she heard it.
"Wait—" Her voice came out. Not commanding. Not the voice she used on the training ground, the voice that had made those four women stand up today by sheer force of its expectations. The voice that came out was the voice underneath that voice — younger, unguarded, stripped of the fifty-year accumulation of professional competence. "Wait. Sir— Dragon Lord— I—"
His hands found her waist.
Both of them. His palms against the curve of it — the dense, muscular flare of a woman built by decades of fighting, not soft at the sides but not hard in the way of flat muscle, something in between, the particular solidity of a body that has done everything with itself and has been marked by all of it.
His hands spanned her waist and his fingers pressed in and she felt the grip and every thought she had been in the middle of reorganized itself around the sensation.
His cock slid down.
Still over the skirt. The full, thick, warm weight of it trailing from her belly to her navel to the curve just below — the arc of it tilting as he adjusted, the blunt head finding the outline of her pussy through the silkiness, pressing against the fabric over the mound of her.
She felt it.
She felt it the way you feel a fist against a door — the impact of something that has not entered but intends to, the pressure of it registering through the fabric against the lips of her cunt, the heat of it conducting through the thin silkiness.
Her labia were puffy against the fabric.
She knew this. She had known this since the wind first hit her in the forest, the absence of underwear making the sensitivity of it her constant companion for twenty minutes of walking and canopy traversal. She had been managing this information.
She was no longer managing it.
Her pussy pressed back against his cock through the skirt of its own direction, a small, involuntary push of her hips forward that her fifty years of discipline absolutely did not authorize.
"Wait—" Louder. Her hands came up and found his chest — the flat, warm expanse of it, the solidity beneath her palms. She pushed. He did not move. She pushed again. Same result. "Sir Dragon— I have never— I should tell you that I— this is not—" freewebnoveℓ.com
"I know," he said.
The two words landed with the weight of a man who has known since before she arrived.
Her mouth closed.
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
The moonlight between them. The mist from the waterfall drifting through the forest, catching silver on his jaw and her shoulders and the white hair at her mound where the skirt had risen again because her hands were on his chest and not on her hem.
He grabbed her hips.
Not gently. The full, locked grip of both hands against the dense muscle of her hips, the fingers pressing in with the certainty of a man taking hold of something he intends to keep hold of.
His cock positioned.
She felt the head press against the fabric directly over her entrance — not sliding, not seeking, finding it with the precision of something adjusted for exactly this body, the blunt mass pressing against the outline of her cunt with a pressure that the silkiness could not buffer and was not being asked to.
"Wait—" The word came out as a breath. Not a command. Not even a full word, just the sound of it, the exhale of a woman who is running out of them. "Wait, wait, wait— Dragon Lord— please—"
PHAAAAACK—
He did not wait.
His hips drove forward with the full weight of his body behind them — no adjustment, no approach, no concession to the fact that what he was driving into had never been entered before — the complete, unhurried, absolutely certain force of a demon who has sized himself for a target and is delivering the result.
The skirt tore.
Not at the seam. At the center — the fabric splitting outward from the point of entry, the silkiness giving way to the blunt mass of his cock head the way anything gives way to something it cannot contain, the tear spreading in two directions from the impact point.
His cock vanished into her.
The full twelve inches.
Not in stages. Not in the careful increments that the afternoon had offered the other women. All of it, in the time it takes a fist to cross open air, the entire length driving through the ruined skirt and through the tight, velvet-steel grip of a cunt that had never been touched and had been made of fifty years of fighting strength.
Her cervix.
He did not stop there. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com
He did not pause at the cervix the way things are supposed to pause at a cervix. The cervix was a piece of information that his cock noted and continued past, the blunt head pressing through it with the unhurried force of something that had been sized to reach beyond it, the full remaining length following behind.
Her womb.
The head of his cock arrived against the wall of her womb and pressed there.
The impact resonated.
Not metaphorically.
The trees moved.
Every tree in the immediate clearing — the branches, the leaves, the upper canopy — shuddered in one simultaneous wave, the air displacing outward from the point of impact the way air displaces from a detonation. The waterfall broke its own sound for a moment, the noise of it shifting and reforming. Two birds somewhere in the dark of the forest launched themselves upward without a destination, driven by the vibration that moved through every surface in the clearing.
And Edda.
Her tits went upward.
Both of them. The full, dense, heavy mass of them driven upward by the force transmitted through her body from the impact at her womb — the fabric of the ruined skirt no longer covering anything from the waist down, her tits exposed and moving with the full-body convulsion of a woman who has just received twelve inches of dragon-demon cock against her womb in a single stroke.
Her eyes.
Her eyes went.
Not rolled — shattered. The controlled gaze of fifty years, the steady, professional, unflinching eyes of the woman who had stood before four students today and said ’I am disappointed’ with absolute certainty — those eyes went completely, totally, irrevocably blank.
The whites showed at the top.
The irises slid sideways.
Her lashes were wet before she had processed crying.
"KKKHAAANNNNNGHHHHHHH~~~!!!!~~~~"
