Her eyes were running.

Not tears only. The full wet of a woman who has been punched in the womb while full of dragon seed and her body does not have a category for this experience and is responding with every fluid it has available.

"It— hah— hurts—" The words came out small. Small in a way none of her words had ever been small, in the particular register of a woman who has spent fifty years being the largest presence in every room and is currently lying on her back in the grass producing the voice of a maiden. "It hurts— Dragon Lord— it ’hurts—’"

He looked at her.

"My bad," he said.

His voice carried the warmth of a man who is not particularly sorry.

"Was I too hard?"

She stared at him.

"It— hah— HURTS—" The word cracked. Broke open. The cry underneath it coming through — not the training-ground voice, not the dragon slayer voice, not the fifty-years-of-discipline voice. The voice under all of them, the one that had never had occasion to come out before today. "It hurts— it hurts— Dragon Lord— ’it hurts—’"

She was crying.

Not the overwhelm tears of before. Not the involuntary physiological response of a nervous system at maximum. Real crying — the full, open, undisguised weeping of a woman who has just understood, at the level of her body, what it means to be a virgin.

Not the hymen. Not the physical membrane. But the feeling — the particular ache of a body that has been opened for the first time and has just been reminded of the opening, the deep interior soreness of walls that are still adjusting, the bruised warmth of a womb that has just been compressed around its own fullness.

She finally understood.

Fifty years late, lying on the grass at a waterfall pool with a demon’s cock still inside her and his seed still slowly pressing out around it, she understood what all of it had been about. What Mira had been covering her face about. What the women in the songs had been singing about. The particular vulnerability of a body that has been claimed and knows it.

"It hurts," she said again.

Quietly this time.

His hand pressed against her abdomen.

His palm flat over the rounded swell, pressing inward — not a punch this time, just the weight of his hand, his fingers spread, the warmth of his palm conducting through the skin to the walls inside.

She felt his cock through his hand.

From both directions simultaneously — his palm pressing inward above and his cock pressing outward below, the two points of contact finding each other through the soft, seed-filled interior of her, his fingers and his cock head separated by only the thin walls of her womb.

"Hah—" She breathed. "Hah— Dragon Lord— hah— what are you— hah—"

He moved.

His hips drew back.

The seed that had been pressing out through the gap accelerated with the withdrawal — a thicker pour this time, the partial vacuum of his retreating cock drawing more of the volume after it, warm and heavy, running from her entrance to his balls to the ground in a continuous thread.

She felt the emptying.

She felt the womb contracting as the volume decreased, the walls pressing inward to follow the retreating fluid, the rounded swell of her belly reducing by degrees.

He drove forward.

PHAAAAACK—

"AAAAAANGHH~!!!"

The thrust sealed the exit again — his cock driving the seed back inward, re-compressing the volume, her womb filling again as the inward pressure redistributed the fluid.

Her belly rounded again.

He pulled back.

The seed pressed out.

He drove forward.

PHACK—

"NGGHHH~!!!"

The belly rounded.

He was fucking the seed into her and out of her simultaneously — each thrust sealing and each withdrawal releasing, the volume inside her womb pumping with his rhythm, her belly pressing outward and releasing in the obscene, impossible rhythm of a body being used as a vessel in the most complete sense of the word.

"Hah— it— hah— Dragon Lord— hah— please— hah— it is— hah— I can feel— hah— every— hah— every inch— hah— of it— hah—"

He grabbed her hands.

Both of them. His fingers closing around her wrists and pulling her hands up — not above her head, to her own chest, pressing her palms flat against the undersides of her own tits, his hands closing over her hands.

He squeezed.

Her own hands squeezed her own tits with his hands as the mechanism, the flesh compressing between her palms and his grip, the nipples pressing against her fingers.

She felt her own hands on her own tits and his hands on her hands and his cock in her womb and his palm pressing against her belly and four layers of contact conducting simultaneously through a body that was running out of ways to process input.

PAH PAH PHACK—

"AANGH~!! HNGHH~!! HAAANGH~!!"

"It hurts— hah— it still— hah— hurts— Dragon Lord— hah— I am— hah— I am crying— hah— why am I— hah— crying—"

She was.

The tears were real and warm on her face and she was not managing them — her eyes wet and open, the moonlight catching the tracks on her cheeks, her lashes soaked and clumped together.

She was crying and she was being fucked and she was asking why she was crying while being fucked and none of this had any precedent in her fifty-year history and she was doing all of it simultaneously.

He lifted her leg.

His hand finding her right calf — the dense, muscular column of it, the Viking-built leg of a woman who has climbed and fought and kicked things for five decades — and drawing it up. Over his shoulder. The full lateral stretch of it, her hip opening sideways, the angle of her pelvis tilting.

The spoon-and-shoulder position.

His body against her side, her shoulder against his chest, her leg up over his shoulder, the angle of his cock now driving not forward but sideways-forward, pressing against the side wall of her canal that had not yet had a direct introduction.

PAH PHACK—

"KYAAANGH~!! NGGHHH~!!!"

"THAT SIDE— hah— not— hah— I did not— hah— there is a— hah— there is a SIDE—"

Her tit swung.

The left one — her body tilted, the breast hanging sideways, the full weight of it swinging with each thrust in the long, heavy arc of something that has been freed from vertical gravity and is now operating on a different axis.

He caught it.

His mouth.

The full mouthful of it — his lips closing around the nipple and the surrounding flesh, taking as much of the breast into his mouth as the human jaw allows, his teeth pressing into the soft tissue behind the nipple, the suction drawing the flesh forward.

SLRRRP—

She arched.

Not her back. Her whole body — the full, lateral, sideways arc of a woman being bitten on the tit while getting fucked in a new direction, her spine curving, her head going back, her free leg pressing into the ground.

SLRRRP— SLRRRP—

"AANGH~!! HNGHH~!! HAAAAAANGH~!!!"

He sucked harder.

The nipple between his teeth now — the full, stiff, oversensitized peak being drawn between his teeth with the pressure of a man who has determined how hard is too hard and is operating at exactly one increment below that.

Her clit.

His hand found it.

His thumb pressing against the swollen, flushed, still-sensitive nub where it pressed out from its hood, the direct contact of his thumb pad against the tip.

He circled.

Slow. Deliberate. The practiced rotation of a sex demon who knows exactly what he is doing and exactly what it is going to produce.

"Hah— no— hah— not again— hah— I cannot— hah— Dragon Lord— hah— I have already— hah— three times— hah— I cannot—"

PAH PAH PHACK—

"AANGH~!! NGGHHH~!! KYAAANGH~!!"

"I cannot— hah— DO IT— hah— AGAIN— hah— my body— hah— it is— hah— BURNING— hah—"