Free Web NovelChapter 521: Chapter 521- A Past Memory
The sound that left her body was not a scream. ƒгeewebnovёl.com
It was larger than a scream.
It was the sound of fifty years of maintained composure exiting through a woman’s throat all at once — the full, unmanaged, completely honest output of a body that has been waiting, without knowing it was waiting, for exactly this particular rearrangement.
It hit the waterfall.
The waterfall answered.
The mist above the pool shook.
The two women at the base of the rock shelf stirred — Rika’s fingers curling, the other woman’s head lifting briefly before falling again, both their insignias pulsing bright pink in response to the sound that was filling the clearing.
Raven held her.
His hands locked on her hips, her full weight hanging from the grip and from his cock buried inside her, her feet three inches off the ground, her skirt in ruins around her thighs, her tits against his chest, her mouth still open on the resonating tail of the scream.
Her body. freewёbnoνel.com
The interior of it — fifty years of steel-tight virginity meeting twelve inches of adjustable incubus cock — was having a conversation at a cellular level that had no language yet, just the pure, overwhelming sensation of walls that had been built over decades encountering something that did not require their permission.
Her womb pressed back.
She felt it.
She felt her own womb press back against the head of his cock with the involuntary, biological honesty of a uterus that has been reached for the first time and does not know how to be neutral about it.
Her hands.
Her hands were still on his chest.
Her fingers had pressed through his shirt and her nails were in the fabric and she was holding on with the grip of a woman who is currently the only part of herself she can control.
Her breath.
"Hah—" In. "Hah—" Out. Each breath its own small, broken thing, the diaphragm fighting the cock buried against her womb for the space to function, the sounds coming out jagged and uneven and completely unlike anything she had ever produced from her own lungs before.
"Hah— hah— it— you— that is— inside— you are— hah—"
Not words.
The attempt at words. The shapes that words make when the mouth is still trying to maintain function while the rest of the body has declared an emergency.
"Hah— Dragon— Lord— that is— hah— I cannot— hah— it is— hah—"
He looked at her face.
The moonlight on it. The tears she was not managing. The open mouth, the visible tongue trembling with each breath, the white hair plastered to her temples where the waterfall mist had settled on her skin. The flush running from her jaw down her neck to the tops of her tits.
The particular expression of a woman who has spent fifty years being the strongest person in every room she has ever stood in, and has just met something that is not impressed by that.
He leaned down.
His mouth at her ear.
She heard his breathing — steady, unhurried, the breathing of a demon who is not overwhelmed because he is the source of the overwhelming.
"Hold on," he said.
She tightened her grip on his shirt.
He pulled back.
The withdrawal was slow — slower than the entry had been, the full length of him dragging against the walls that had closed around him with the grip of something that has learned a shape and does not intend to release it. She felt every inch of it leaving. Felt the passage of the head through her cervix on the way back. Felt the girth of him moving against walls that had never accommodated girth before and were still adjusting to the fact that they now had.
Her mouth produced:
"Haaah— ngh— haaaah—"
Continuous. The low, soft, entirely uncontrolled breathing of a woman tracking a sensation that has no precedent in her body’s history.
He stopped at the last inch.
Just the head inside her.
She felt the stretch of the entrance around the crown of him — the ring of her cunt holding the widest part of the head with the particular tightness of fifty years of muscle memory that has never been asked to accommodate a diameter like this.
"Hah—" She breathed. "Hah— hah— wait— please— I need a—"
PHAAAAACK—
The second stroke.
"ANNNNNGHHHHHH~~~!!!~~"
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Thirty Years Ago — A Forest Road at Dusk
The tree bark was rough against her back.
Not that she was the one against the tree. She was behind a different tree, three meters away, with her arms crossed and her cloak pulled forward and her expression doing the thing it did when she was watching people be idiots and had decided to let the idiocy complete itself before commenting.
Beside her, also behind a tree, the assassin.
He had the hood of his cloak up. He had his arms crossed. His expression was the expression of a man who has accepted that his party members are going to do this and has decided that his job is perimeter security.
Between them and the other tree: Duren and Ginnie.
Duren was the tank. He had been the tank for three years. He was built like a wall that had decided to become a man and had done a thorough job of it — wide shoulders, thick neck, arms that had carried a tower shield through fourteen dungeons without complaint. He was currently using those arms to pin Ginnie against a tree with his hands on either side of her head, leaning down at the particular angle of a man who is several inches taller than the woman he is looking at and has decided to use the differential.
Ginnie was the mage.
She was small and sharp-faced and her robes were embroidered and she had killed a dungeon boss with one spell three weeks ago and she was currently covering her own face with both hands and making a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a mortified whimper.
"Don’t," she said, from behind her hands.
"I’m not doing anything," Duren said.
"You are doing a thing. You are currently doing a thing. Stop doing the thing."
"I just want to show you something."
"I DO NOT WANT TO SEE IT."
Edda looked at the assassin.
The assassin looked at Edda.
"Are they flirting," Edda said.
"They have been flirting," the assassin said, "since they were eleven. You have been watching them for three years. I thought you had processed this."
"I have processed that they make eyes at each other during fights. I have not processed—" She gestured at the tree. "Whatever this is."
"They confessed last week," the assassin said mildly. "Behind the inn. You were sharpening your axe."
Edda looked at him.
"Childhood friends," he added. "You know how it goes."
She looked back at the tree.
Duren had said something that made Ginnie lower her hands two inches, enough that her eyes were visible above her fingers — wide, dark, intensely flustered eyes that were looking at him with the expression of a woman who has decided something and is embarrassed that her face is showing it.
"One day," Duren was saying, and his voice had gone to the low, earnest register of a large man attempting to be romantic and doing it with the same total commitment he brought to shield walls, "I am going to—"
What Edda saw next made her eyes go wide.
He had unzipped his trousers.
He had unzipped his trousers in the middle of a forest road at dusk with their party mage pressed against a tree and had produced — Edda stared — five inches of completely committed, entirely earnest, absolutely vertical erection pointing directly at Ginnie’s embroidered robes.
"—make babies," he said, with the devastating sincerity of a man who has rehearsed this, "inside your belly. With it."
