Hospital Debauchery-Chapter 201: Bride’s Mother II

Devon did not speak.

He simply rolled onto his back beside her, slow and heavy, the mattress letting out a long, defeated groan that sounded almost human.

The bridal-suite sheets were beyond saving, soaked through, twisted into wet ropes, streaked with sweat, spit, cum, and the faint pinkish traces of the scratches she had clawed into his back.

One thick arm slid behind his head, bicep flexing lazily, the other rested across the ridged plane of his stomach, fingers loose, almost casual, but his cock, still furiously hard, jutted straight up like a weapon.

He turned his face to her.

"Come here," he rasped, voice scraped raw, low enough to vibrate in her clit. "Get on top. I want to watch you take every single inch of it."

Marianne’s breath caught so violently her ribs ached.

A hurricane of feeling tore through her: shame that tasted metallic on her tongue, rage that made her hands shake, a hunger so deep it terrified her, and beneath it all the sick, undeniable pull of love had never let die. Serena’s scent still clung to his skin. The same mouth that had been between her daughter’s legs hours ago was now inches from hers.

She should slap him.

She should run.

Instead her thighs trembled as she pushed herself up, the ruined black dress hanging in cold, wet ribbons around her waist, silk brushing her overheated skin like a taunt.

She swung one shaking leg over him and straddled his hips.

The motion opened her completely. Cool air kissed her swollen, dripping folds and another thick bead of wetness slid down the inside of her thigh, slow, shameless, glistening in the chandelier light.

She felt it like a brand, like proof of how far she had already fallen.

Devon lay beneath her like a dark god waiting for worship.

His cock stood angry and beautiful, veins standing out in thick relief, the broad crown shining with her spit and his pre-cum.

A single fat pearl welled at the slit, trembled, then rolled down the underside in a slow, hypnotic trail that vanished into the coarse hair at his base. It jerked again when her shadow fell over it, impatient, greedy, alive.

Marianne reached down with both trembling hands.

Her fingers didn’t meet around him.

He was scalding hot, velvet skin sliding over rigid steel.

The second she closed her grip he jerked in her palms and a low, animal growl rumbled in his chest. She lifted him away from his stomach, angled the fat head toward her entrance, and paused.

Just the slick crown kissing her swollen lips made her gasp.

Her hips gave an involuntary twitch forward, chasing contact even as her mind screamed at her to stop. She was drenched, open, aching, but the sheer size of him after nine years felt impossible.

She pressed down, slow, so slow it was torture, letting the broad head part her folds, stretch her, breach her.

The burn was instant, white-hot, perfect.

A broken moan tore from her throat as the crown finally slipped inside with a wet little pop.

Her walls fluttered wildly, trying to adjust, trying to open.

She sank another fraction and the stretch sharpened, almost painful, deliciously so. Her nails clawed into his chest, carving fresh red crescents over the scratches Serena had left hours ago.

Sweat beaded between her breasts and slid down her stomach in a warm, teasing trail that pooled in her navel before dripping onto his skin.

"Breathe, baby,"

Devon murmured, voice low and filthy, hands settling on her hips, thumbs stroking the soft skin just above the bone. "Open that pretty cunt for me. Let me feel you remember exactly who you belong to."

The words sliced straight through her.

Belong.

She hated him.

But she still wanted him.

And she hated that she wantes him.

She sank another inch.

Another.

Her thighs shook harder.

Every tiny shift dragged the thick ridge of his cock against raw, oversensitive nerves.

She could feel every vein, every throb, every pulse as he filled her slowly, relentlessly.

When she finally took half of him she had to stop, forehead dropping to his shoulder, breath coming in ragged, open-mouthed sobs against his skin.

She tasted salt, sex, him, and the faint sweetness that was still her daughter.

The shame burned hotter than the stretch.

Devon’s hands tightened, anchoring her, not pushing, just owning.

"More," he commanded, soft but iron.

She lifted her head, met his eyes, black fire, and sank the rest of the way down in one long, devastating glide.

The sound that ripped out of her was raw, animal, half-sob, half-scream.

He bottomed out inside her, cockhead kissing the mouth of her womb, filling her so completely her vision sparked white at the edges.

Her walls clamped down hard, fluttering, milking him in frantic pulses.

Tears slipped down her cheeks and fell onto his chest in hot little drops.

For a long moment neither of them moved.

She could feel everything, the impossible stretch, the burn, the way he throbbed like a second heartbeat, the way her own heartbeat thundered in her clit, in her nipples, in the frantic drum of blood in her ears.

She could feel the shame and the hunger braided so tight she couldn’t pull them apart.

Then she began to move.

Tiny, filthy rolls of her hips at first, barely more than a grind, just enough to feel him drag against every secret place inside her.

Her breath hitched with every circle.

She rose up an inch, sank back down, rose two inches, sank again.

Each slow slide sent sparks shooting up her spine. Her hands braced on his chest, nails digging in as she found a rhythm, slow, filthy circles that made his cock grind against her front wall, made her swollen clit rub against the coarse hair at his base with every downward roll.

She leaned forward, hair spilling over them like a dark silk curtain, and kissed him. It was messy, desperate, open-mouthed and starving.

She moaned into his mouth, tongue sliding against his, tasting herself and him and everything forbidden.

Her hips never stopped moving, rolling, grinding, taking him deeper on every downward stroke until the wet sounds of their bodies filled the room like the dirtiest symphony.

Devon let her set the pace for a long, long minute, eyes locked on hers, watching every flicker of pleasure and pain and guilt cross her face.

Then his patience shattered.

His hands clamped down on her hips hard enough to bruise and he thrust up, hard, once.

The slap of skin on skin cracked through the room like a gunshot.

Marianne’s head fell back, a broken cry spilling from her lips as pleasure punched straight through her core.

"That’s it," he growled.

His hips snapped up again, again, again, meeting her halfway, driving into her so hard the headboard slammed the wall in a violent, relentless rhythm. She tried to keep up, tried to ride him, but he was merciless, pounding into her from below, cock dragging against every nerve ending, stretching her open with every brutal thrust.

The wet sounds were obscene, slick, rhythmic, the slap of his heavy balls against her ass, her own wetness coating his groin, dripping down his thighs, soaking the sheets beneath them in dark, spreading stains.

He sat up suddenly, wrapped one steel arm around her waist, and crushed her chest to his.

The new angle drove him impossibly deeper.

She screamed into his shoulder, nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood, legs shaking uncontrollably around his hips.

He fucked her like that, hard and fast and filthy, mouth latched onto her breast, sucking the nipple deep, teeth scraping, tongue lashing until it was swollen and dark and aching.

His free hand slipped between them, thumb finding her clit and rubbing in tight, vicious circles that made her sob.

Marianne shattered.

The orgasm hit her like a seizure, harder than any before. Her entire body convulsed, pussy clamping down on him in brutal, rhythmic pulses, wetness gushing around his cock, soaking them both in a hot flood.

She screamed his name, voice breaking, back bowing so violently he had to hold her or she would have fallen. Her vision went white, then black at the edges, every muscle locked in exquisite, endless spasm.

He did not stop.

He flipped her onto her back without pulling out, hooked her legs over his shoulders, and folded her nearly in half.

The angle was devastating.

He pounded into her with everything he had, hips snapping forward, cock slamming deep, balls slapping her ass with every thrust.

The bed screamed beneath them. Her hands scrabbled at the sheets, at his arms, leaving red trails everywhere she touched.

He leaned down, mouth at her ear. "Look at me," he snarled.

She forced her eyes open.

Tears streaked her temples.

His gaze burned into hers as he drove into her again and again, slow and punishing now, letting her feel every inch. "This cunt is mine," he said.

"Say it."

"Yours," she sobbed, the word torn out of her.

Another orgasm built, vicious and fast.

He felt it, felt her walls fluttering, and slammed deep, grinding against her clit with his pubic bone until she came again, screaming, gushing, body shaking apart beneath him.

He pulled out suddenly, the wet drag obscene, and flipped her onto her stomach.

Before she could catch her breath he hauled her hips up, forced her onto her knees, chest pressed to the mattress, ass in the air like an offering.

He spread her cheeks wide, thumbs brushing the slick mess between them, and drove back in with one brutal thrust that buried him to the root.

Marianne screamed into the sheets, the sound muffled and raw.

He fucked her like that, hard, fast,and barbaric.

One hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back until her spine arched beautifully, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave fingerprints.

His cock dragged against her front wall with every stroke, hitting that spot relentlessly until she was sobbing, shaking, coming again and again in waves that left her breathless and wrecked.

He leaned over her, chest to her back, mouth at her ear.

He reached around, fingers finding her clit again, rubbing fast and rough while he pounded into her without mercy.

Another orgasm tore through her, then another, until she was a trembling, sobbing wreck, barely able to hold herself up, thighs slick and shining, pussy swollen and dripping around him.

Only then did he feel it, the twitch in his cock, the tightening in his balls, the heat coiling low in his spine.

Marianne felt it too.

"No," she gasped, voice raw and broken. "Devon, please, don’t cum inside me—"

Her words dissolved into a broken cry as he slammed deep and held there.

He came with a guttural groan that sounded like it was ripped from his soul.

His cock pulsed hard, thick ropes of cum flooding her, painting her walls, filling her until she felt it in her womb.

He ground against her, hips jerking, emptying himself completely, marking her in the most primal way possible.

She could feel every spurt, every throb, the heat spreading deep inside her, claiming her all over again.

When he finally pulled out, the wet sound was obscene. Cum followed immediately, thick and white, oozing from her swollen pussy in slow, filthy rivulets, sliding down her thighs, pooling on the sheets beneath her.

Marianne collapsed forward, gasping, trembling, utterly spent, chest heaving, limbs shaking like leaves in a storm.

She thought he was done.

Then his hands gripped her hips again, strong and sure, and flipped her onto her back once more.

Before she could process it, he spread her legs wide, grabbed her reddened ass cheeks with both hands, and squeezed hard, spreading her open, exposing the creamy mess he had made of her.

Her eyes flew open, wide and stunned, breath catching in her throat as he looked down at her like a man far, far from finished.