Chapter 535: Chapter 535- Edda offer an Apology
Between her shoulder blades. The full, flat press of his palm, pressing her down into the grass, his weight behind the hand, her body held flat against the ground with the absolute certainty of something that cannot be moved.
She tried to push up.
Her arms under her. Her hands pressing against the grass. Her back muscles engaging — the fifty years of dragon-slayer strength, the dense, Viking-built power of her.
She did not move.
His hand pressed harder.
"Lay down," he said.
His voice was warm. Not angry. Not threatening. The particular warmth of a man making a simple statement of fact.
"Or," he continued, pleasantly, "I will kill your grandson."
The words landed in the air with the weight of absolute certainty.
Edda went still.
Not her breathing. Her breathing continued — harsh, ragged, her chest pressing against the grass with each inhale. But her body. The tension in her arms. The push against the ground. The intention to rise.
It all stopped.
"If you move," Raven said, his hand still pressing between her shoulder blades, his voice still warm, still pleasant, still completely, utterly, terrifyingly casual, "I will kill him."
Edda’s eyes widened.
The full, white, terrified wideness of a woman who has just understood that the threat is real and that the cost of testing it is something she cannot pay.
She looked at Jacob.
Her face was turned sideways, pressed into the grass, but her eyes found him — three meters away, face-down in the dirt, held by four women, his own eyes wide and wet and looking at her with the particular expression of a boy who has watched his grandmother die once and is watching her be destroyed again.
"W-what—" Edda’s voice came out small. "What are you— saying—"
She tried to turn her head. His hand pressed harder. Her cheek pressed deeper into the grass.
"Do not—" Her voice cracked. "Do not— hurt him— please— he is— he is just—"
"Do you know," Raven said, his hand pressing down, his body crouched over her back, his cock resting against the cleft of her ass where she was bent forward on the grass, "what I want?"
Edda trembled.
The full-body tremor of a woman who has just been fucked for hours and has just run out of all reserves and has just been given a choice that is not a choice.
She nodded.
Into the grass. The small, helpless, completely defeated motion of her head pressing into the dirt.
"Then," he said, "do not disappoint me."
The words landed.
She understood them.
She understood everything in them — the village, the threat, the power, the fact that she was a dragon slayer who had spent fifty years being the strongest person in every room and was currently face-down in the grass under the hand of a man who had fucked her into a different shape and was now offering her the choice between compliance and her grandson’s death.
She looked at Jacob.
Her eyes, wet, streaming, looking at her grandson across three meters of moonlit grass.
"I’m sorry," she whispered.
Not to Raven. To Jacob. The small, broken, completely inadequate whisper of a grandmother who has decided to save her grandson the only way she can.
She moved.
Her hips.
The slow, deliberate, absolutely surrendering lift of her hips from the grass — her knees pressing into the ground, her belly leaving the dirt, her back arching downward while her hips rose upward, the full, obscene, presenting arch of a woman who has decided to offer herself.
She reached behind her.
Her hand finding his cock — the thick, wet, crimson shaft resting against the cleft of her ass. She angled it. Not toward her pussy. Not toward the entrance that had already been used and destroyed and rebuilt tonight.
She angled it toward her ass.
"Forgive me, Dragon Lord," she said.
Her voice came out hoarse. Broken. The voice of a woman who has been fucked past dignity and is now offering the last thing she has.
"Please," she said. "Punish me. For acting out of my boundaries."
Raven chuckled.
The warm, low, completely satisfied sound of a man who has just been offered exactly what he intended to receive.
He looked at the arch of her.
The full, muscular, Viking-built back curved downward. The dense muscle of her shoulders pressed into the grass. The broad flare of her hips lifted upward. The heavy, marked, sole-printed tits hanging downward toward the ground. The white hair of her pussy visible between her spread thighs, and above it, the cleft of her ass presented with the absolute, complete, total surrender of a woman who has nothing left to withhold.
"Good," he said.
He pulled her ass cheek aside.
His hand — the same hand that had been pressing her down, now moving, gripping, pulling — the dense, muscular cheek of her ass spreading under his grip, the tight ring of her anal visible, twitching, clenching in the moonlight.
She felt the air on it.
She felt the exposure.
She felt the blunt head of his cock pressing against the ring — not her pussy, not the wet, stretched, already-fucked entrance. The dry, tight, completely untouched ring of her anal, the hole that had never been entered, never been considered, never been part of any equation in her fifty years.
"W-wait—" Her voice came out small. "That is— that is not— that is the— wrong—"
PHAAAAACK—
"KKKKHAAAAAAANNGHHHHHH~~~~~~~!!!!!!!~~~~~~~~"
The scream left her body with the force of a woman being torn in half.
Not metaphorically.
The actual sensation — twelve inches of dragon cock, adjusted to her body, pressing against a ring that had never been opened and had no intention of opening, the blunt head driving forward with the absolute, unyielding, completely merciless force of a demon who has decided to enter and will not be stopped.
Five inches.
He got five inches in the first stroke.
The ring tore.
The tissue tore.
The walls tore.
Yet her tightness, as if anal, not letting in a single more, making him feel an intense urge to break forward, but he let the initial strokes be gentle on her virgin muscular anal.
The full, catastrophic, complete tearing of a virgin anal being entered by twelve inches of adjusted incubus cock — the pain not arriving in waves but in a single, total, overwhelming detonation that filled her entire body from the point of entry to the top of her skull.
Her boobs swung.
The full, heavy, dense mass of them — hanging downward from her arched position, the nipples pointing at the grass — they swung forward with the impact of his hips meeting her ass, the flesh moving in a long, heavy, completely uncontrolled arc, the sole-print on her right tit stretching with the motion.
Her mouth opened.
Her tongue came out.
Not the aheago expression — worse. The full, open, completely destroyed expression of a woman who has just had something impossible driven into the most protected part of her body, her jaw slack, her tongue extended, her eyes rolling upward until only the whites showed, her teeth bared in a rictus that was not a smile.
Her body arched.
Not the controlled arch of presentation. The convulsive, involuntary, total-body spasm of a woman whose nervous system has just received a signal that has no category and no management protocol — her spine bending, her head snapping back, her hands slamming into the grass on either side of her face with the full, clawing grip of someone trying to find something to hold onto in a world that has just been redefined.
"GRANDMA—!!!"
