Chapter 532: Chapter 532- Jacob’s Memories
He pushed her back down.
The braid pulling her forward, her mouth opening on instinct — the throat that had just been emptied receiving him again, the walls closing around the shaft with the immediate, trained tightness of tissue that has already been stretched to this shape and remembers it.
SHLRCH— SHLRCH— PHACK—
"Glmph~!! MMNNGH~!! Gkh~!!"
The ’phack’ at the end — his pelvis meeting her face, the full-depth seal of his cock hitting the bottom of her throat and his hips finding her nose and the bridge of it pressing flat against his abs.
Her eyes.
Completely white.
The irises gone, the lashes wet and clumped, the tears running freely from the closed-shut lids, the full aheago expression of a face that has twelve inches of cock pressed all the way past its back wall.
SHLRCH— SHLRCH— SHLRCH—
"Gkh~!! Glmph~!! MMNNGH~!! Gkh~!! Mmngh~!!"
Her hands on his hips.
Pushing. The full force of dragon-slayer arms pressing against him — not ineffective, she was genuinely strong, genuinely applying everything she had to the task of pushing him back.
He did not move.
He started to face-fuck her.
Not the deliberate, measured pace of before. The actual rhythm — his hips driving forward and pulling back, the full range of motion, her head held in position by the braid wrapped around her neck and his fist gripping the tail of it, her body reduced to the position of a sheath being operated.
SHLRCH SHLRCH SHLRCH—
"Gkh~!! MMNGH~!! Glmph~!! Gkh~!! HMMPH~!!"
The water around his knees splashed with each thrust.
The pool surface breaking and reforming with the rhythm of it, the moonlight catching the spray, the waterfall above them indifferent to the whole proceeding.
She thought: ’please.’
She thought it clearly. In the full, coherent, desperate register of a woman who has arrived at the end of her inventory of responses.
’Please.’
’Someone.’
She looked up.
Between the thrusts. In the half-second of his cock retreating before the next advance, her eyes came forward from the white and found the treeline.
The treeline.
Where, emerging from the trees with a lantern and five women behind him, a young man had just arrived at the edge of the waterfall pool.
He stopped.
The lantern in his hand.
His mouth open.
His eyes finding the pool. Finding the two naked women draped over each other at the rock shelf’s edge, fast asleep. Finding the man crouched in the shallows. Finding the white-haired woman on her knees in the water in front of him.
Finding the braid wrapped around her neck.
Finding the bulge in the throat.
Finding the tears on her face.
Finding her eyes — his grandmother’s eyes — looking directly at him from the edge of the pool with the precise, horrified, fully-conscious expression of a woman who has just been found by her grandson in the worst possible position a grandmother has ever been found in.
SHLRCH—
"Gkh~!! Mmngh~!!"
Jacob stood at the treeline.
The lantern in his hand.
The five women behind him had stopped.
Marla had her hand over her mouth.
Not from shock. From the effort of not producing a sound that would make the situation worse.
Jacob looked at his grandmother.
His grandmother looked at Jacob.
She could not speak.
She could not speak because there were twelve inches of dragon cock in her throat and the man holding her braid was still moving and the words she needed to say — ’Jacob go home, Jacob do not look, Jacob I will explain this, Jacob leave right now’ — none of them had an exit route.
Jacob looked at Raven.
Raven looked at Jacob.
The unhurried, warm, completely unsurprised look of a man who knew exactly who was coming through the trees and when, and has timed the tableau accordingly.
He smiled.
"Oh," Raven said, to Jacob, with the pleasant tone of a man making an introduction at a dinner party, "you are quiet late."
SHLRCH—
"Gkh~!! MMNGH~!!!"
Edda’s eyes, looking at her grandson over the shaft of a dragon’s cock, communicated in the wordless language of complete mortification approximately three full paragraphs of things she would never be able to say out loud.
Jacob looked at his grandmother.
He looked at Raven.
He looked at the two sleeping women at the rock shelf.
He looked at the five women behind him.
He looked at his grandmother again.
He set down the lantern very carefully on the ground.
He rubbed his face with both hands.
He breathed out through his fingers.
"N-no.... no... what the hell.... this.... no.... Grandma," he said, from behind his hands.
SHLRCH— SHLRCH—
"Gkh~!! Hmmngh~!!"
.
.
.
.
.
.
A MEMORY ~~~
The village was burning.
Not gradually. The way a dragon burns a village — the sudden, catastrophic, orange-white bloom of it spreading from the east edge where the first breath had landed, the thatch roofs catching simultaneously, the screams of the waking rising into the night air like a separate sound from the fire itself.
Jacob stood in the doorway.
His hands on the wooden frame of his grandmother’s hut. His eyes wide and reflecting the orange.
He was not supposed to be awake.
He was supposed to be sleeping. He had been sleeping. The screams had woken him, and the heat, and the particular smell of burning thatch that carries the memory of every village that has ever burned since the first dragon found the first cluster of human huts.
He ran out.
Bare feet on the packed dirt of the village center, the heat already pressing against his face from three directions, the sky above the eastern edge glowing with the particular brightness of a dragon’s breath.
She was there.
His grandmother. Edda Williams. Fifty five years old even then, thick and broad and carrying the battle axe she had not used in a decade with the same ease she had carried it when she was twenty. Standing between the village center and the eastern edge where the dragon was landing — its claws crushing the baker’s house, its wings folding, its head lowering with the smoke rising from its nostrils.
She looked at Jacob.
Across the burning distance. Her eyes finding his in the firelight.
"Run," she said.
Not shouted. The carrying voice of a woman who does not need to raise her tone to be heard over fire and dragon wings.
"Grandma—"
"RUN."
The dragon breathed.
The fire came — not at her. At the well. The well where six villagers were huddled. The white-hot cone of it, the impossible heat of dragon breath.
She moved.
She moved the way she had moved when she was the dragon slayer of the capital — the axe coming up, the blade catching the fire, the edge of it somehow splitting the cone, her body stepping into the split with the full, committed, absolutely certain motion of a woman who has decided what she is willing to die for.
The axe sang.
The blade sang. A sound that cut through the fire and the screams and the dragon’s roar — the high, clear note of a weapon that had been forged for exactly this purpose and had been waiting for this purpose.
Jacob ran.
Not away. Toward her. Twenty years old, bare feet burning on the heated ground, the sword of the hero — his father’s sword, his grandfather’s sword — in his hand.
He did not know when he had picked it up.
He did not know when he had learned to hold it.
