100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 734: Chapter 733- Life of a woman under a Man

She cried. The tears, falling from the corners of her eyes, ran down her temples and into her hair. The ’I-am-tied-up-in-a-bathtub-and-I-cannot-move’ reality that was both terrifying and, God help her, arousing.

He broke the kiss. His face, still wet, lifted. He looked down at her. At the tied hands. At the raised breasts. At the body, spread beneath him in the warm water.

His hand found her breast. He kneaded. The flesh, soft and heavy, deformed under his fingers. His thumb found the nipple. Pressed. Rolled. The nub, stiff and sensitive, was worked.

"It hurts," she whispered. The words were not about pain. They were about the ’please-be-gentle’ plea that her pride would not let her voice directly. "Slow down."

"Mmph—♡ ah—♡" The moans, escaping despite her efforts, came with each movement of his fingers. Her body, responding to the stimulation, was betraying her. Her hips, under the water, were moving. Grinding against nothing. Seeking.

His finger found her pussy. Not his mouth. Not his cock. His finger. One digit, long and calloused, pushed into her entrance. The walls, wet and swollen, yielded. The finger slid in to the first knuckle. Then the second. Then full.

"Nnngh—!!" The sound was sharp. The intrusion, the ’something-is-inside-me’ sensation, made her clench. Her walls, tight and unused, gripped his finger. The pressure, the ’I-have-not-been-penetrated-in-years’ tightness, was visible in the way her pussy clamped.

He pulled out. One inch. Pushed back in. The rhythm, slow and maddening, was finger-fucking. Not rough. Not brutal. The ’I-am-preparing-you’ rhythm that he had used with his mouth.

She trembled. Her body, the mature body that had not been touched by a man in years, was responding. Her pussy, around his finger, was wet. Wetter than the bath water. The arousal, thick and warm, was coating his digit. The sound, the wet ’schlick-schlick’ of finger in cunt, was audible.

"Stop," she whispered. "Don’t do it. Please."

He chuckled. The sound, low and warm, vibrated through his finger and into her walls.

"You’re not a virgin," he said.

The statement, not a question, made her freeze. Her amber eyes, wet with tears, found his face. The ’how-does-he-know’ horror that was also the ’of-course-I-am-not’ truth.

"Of course I’m not," she whispered. Her voice trembled. The shame, the ’I-am-a-Baroness-who-has-been-penetrated-before’ shame that was ridiculous but real, colored her cheeks. "I just... I..."

She couldn’t finish. The ’I-just-have-not-been-with-a-man-in-years’ confession that her pride could not voice.

He added a second finger. The stretch, the ’two-fingers-inside-me’ stretch, made her gasp. Her walls, tight and resistant, were forced wider. The fingers, moving together, pushed deeper. Found the front wall. The rough patch. The G-spot.

"Ah—♡!!" The moan, louder, was involuntary. Her hips, bucking against his hand, chased the pressure. Her body, the traitor, wanted more.

He finger-fucked her harder. Two fingers. In and out. The pace, increasing, was matched by the ’schlick-schlick-schlick’ of her wetness. The sound, obscene and wet, filled the bathroom. The water, disturbed by her hip movements, lapped against the tub’s rim.

She was crying. The tears, running freely, mixed with the bath water. Her hands, tied above her head, pulled against the bra binding. The lace, stretching but holding, kept her arms pinned. Her breasts, thrust upward, heaved with each breath. Her nipples, stiff and red, pointed at the ceiling.

He pulled out. His fingers, slick and wet, emerged. He looked at her. At the amber eyes, wet and desperate. At the open mouth. At the trembling body.

"Have you lost your virginity to your boyfriend?" he asked. The question, crude and direct, was designed to humiliate. The ’tell-me-your-personal-history’ demand that no Baroness should have to answer.

She trembled. Her face, crimson with shame, turned away. "Stop it. Don’t say that."

He chuckled. His hand, the wet one, went to his cock. The shaft, hard and ready, was stroked. Once. Twice. The head, dark and dripping pre-cum, was positioned at her entrance. The tip, the broad crown, pressed against her lips. The contact, the ’his-cock-is-at-my-entrance’ contact, made her entire body go rigid.

"Good," he said. His voice was conversational. "I can be rough on you."

"No," she gasped. Her eyes, wide, found his. "Don’t. Don’t push—"

He slammed.

PAAAH—!!

"AAAAAAAAAHH—♡♡♡♡!!"

Ten inches. One thrust. Not the full twelve. Ten. The cock, driving through her entrance, through the swollen lips, through the tight canal, hit her cervix. The impact, the ’his-cock-just-hit-my-womb’ impact, was a punch. Her body, in the water, lurched upward. Her belly, the soft pale belly, bulged. The outline of the cockhead, visible through the skin, was a ridge that ran from her pelvis to her navel.

Her curves, the mature curves of a woman’s hips and waist, were stretched. The pelvis, the bone structure that had been designed for different proportions, was forced wider. The sensation, the ’my-body-is-being-reshaped-around-his-cock’ sensation, was beyond anything she had imagined.

"AAAAHH—♡♡!! STOP—♡♡!! IT’S—♡♡!! TOO—♡♡!! BIG—♡♡!!"

He held. Deep. Ten inches, buried. The walls, clenching and unclenching, were in spasm. The muscles, the vaginal muscles that had not been stretched in years, were being forced to accommodate. The friction, the wet, dragging friction, was intense.

His hands found her hips. Gripped. The fingers, digging into the flesh, found purchase. He pulled back. Five inches. The withdrawal, the ’the-cock-is-leaving’ sensation, was a relief. Then he drove back in.

PAH.

"AAAAHH—♡♡!!"

He started to fuck her.

PAH. PAH. PAH.

The rhythm, steady and relentless, was not the brutal machine-gun pace he had used on the others. It was slower. Deeper. Each thrust, the full ten inches, drove to the hilt. Each withdrawal, the full ten, pulled to the head. The pace, the ’I-am-fucking-you-like-a-woman-not-a-bitch’ pace, was devastating.

"Please—♡!! Slow—♡!! Down—♡!!" she begged. Her voice, broken by the rhythm, came in fragments. Each word, pushed out by a thrust, was followed by a moan. "I—♡!! Can’t—♡!! It’s—♡!! Too—♡!! Deep—♡!!"

He did not slow down.

Her body, in the warm water, was being rocked. Each thrust, the PAH of his hips hitting her thighs, sent a wave through the bath. The water, displaced by the motion, sloshed over the rim. Onto the floor. The sound, the ’slosh-slosh-slosh’ of water in a tub, mixed with the ’PAH PAH PAH’ of flesh and the ’AAAAHH’ of screams.

He lifted her legs. Higher. From his shoulders, her calves were pushed toward her head. The position, the ’folding-her-in-half’ position, opened her wider. The angle changed. The cock, driving downward now, hit a different spot. The front wall. The G-spot. Every thrust, every PAH, sent a jolt through her clit.

"AAAAAAHH—♡♡♡!!" The scream was different. Higher. The ’he-found-the-spot’ scream that meant the pleasure was overtaking the pain.

PAH. PAH. PAH. PAAAH—!!

He fucked her harder. The pace increased. The water, churning, was a whirlpool around their joined bodies. The sound, the combined PAH and slosh and AAAAHH, was a symphony of wet, brutal sex.

Then he lifted her. Out of the water. His hands, under her ass, lifted her mid-air. Her body, dripping, rose from the tub. The water, cascading from her skin, fell back. His cock, still inside her, held her. The shaft, the grip of her walls, was the only support. She was suspended. Impaled. Her legs, locked around his hips, held. Her arms, still tied above her head, hung. The bra, the binding, was stretched.

He bounced her.

PAH. PAH. PAH.

"AAAAHH—♡♡♡!! HNNNGH—♡♡♡!! VIK—♡♡!! TOR—♡♡♡!!"