His thumb circled faster.

The clit pulsing under it — the blood-filled nub flushing darker, the hood pulling back from the pressure, the nerve endings on its surface conducting directly to the spine with the full, undiluted, unmanaged signal of direct stimulation.

The pressure built.

She felt it building. Felt it in a way that was different from the previous times — not the detonation, not the single overwhelming blast, but the slow, rolling, inexorable approach of a wave that has been gathering since before she arrived at the waterfall and is now cresting.

"Hah— no— hah— please— hah— Dragon Lord— hah— please— hah— it is too— hah— I am on a— hah— furnace— hah— I am— hah— BURNING— hah—"

PHAAAAACK—

"AAAAAANGHH~!!!!"

The wave broke.

The squirt left her in a column — not a spray this time, a directed stream, the full hydraulic output of a cunt that has been stimulated past its orgasm threshold while already full and is now releasing everything in a single coherent direction.

It hit the grass six feet away.

Not a splash. A stream. A genuine, continuous, transparent stream that lasted four full seconds and covered the ground between her hips and the grass six feet distant with the warm, impossible evidence of what had just happened to a fifty-year-old dragon slayer at a waterfall pool under a full moon.

Her body hit the furnace.

She felt it — the full-body heat of a sex demon’s orgasm-trigger coursing through her from the clit outward, the warmth moving into her thighs and her belly and her chest and her extremities simultaneously, her fingers and toes going hot, her face flushing, the flush visible in the moonlight as it moved up her neck and across her cheeks.

She wailed.

Not a scream. A wail — the long, low, continuous, helpless cry of a woman whose body has been run past every limit it knew it had and has just discovered it has more limits beyond those, and those are being run past too.

"HAAAAAANGHH~!!!! AAAAAANGHH~!!!!

Her leg was still on his shoulder.

Her tit was still in his mouth.

His thumb was still on her clit.

His cock was still driving into her from the side with the relentless, unhurried rhythm of something that has not finished its work and knows it.

PAH PAH PHACK PHACK PHAAAAACK—

"AANGH~!! HNGHH~!! KYAAANGH~!! AAANGH~!! NGGHHH~!!!"

She was limp.

Not unconscious. Her eyes were open and her mouth was open and her voice was still producing — but the structural element of her had gone. The fifty years. The dragon slayer. The teacher who had stood on the training ground today and said ’I am disappointed’ with absolute certainty. The woman who had climbed through the canopy pulling her skirt down.

Gone.

What remained was simpler than all of that. A woman. A body. A womb that had been claimed and a clit that was still being circled and a throat that was making sounds it had never made before and was going to keep making them because there was nothing left to stop it.

"Dragon Lord—" The words came out between gasps. Broken. Wet. The last words she had before she ran out of them. "Dragon Lord— have mercy— I cannot— hah— my body— I cannot— hah— feel— hah— anything— hah— anymore— I cannot— hah— ’please—’"

PHAAAAACK—

"AAAAAAAAANGHH~~~!!!!!!"

His hips did not slow.

His thumb did not lift.

His mouth did not release her tit.

He simply drove forward again and the sound that left her was the sound that the forest remembered and the waterfall recorded and the two sleeping women five meters away registered in their dreams without waking from them.

"Please—" She breathed. "Hah— please— Dragon Lord— hah— ’have mercy—’"

PAH—

"AANGH~!!!"

"I cannot—" The words dissolving. "Hah— I—"

PHACK—

"NGGHHH~!!!"

"My—" Just syllables now. "Hah— my—"

SCRLOCHH—

"HAAAAAAAAANGHH~~~!!!!~~~"

He pulled out.

The withdrawal was not gentle.

It was the full, dragging, obscene pull of twelve inches leaving a cunt that had molded itself around the shape of him over the course of the night — the walls clinging, the ring of her entrance stretching outward as the head passed through it, her body making the wet, pulling sound of something that does not want to release what it has been holding.

She made a sound.

Not a scream. Not a moan. The low, raw, continuous groan of a woman whose body has just been vacated and is registering the absence with the full, undisguised honesty of something that has been thoroughly colonized and now knows what empty means.

"Hah— hah— hah—"

She lay.

On her back. The grass beneath her. The moonlight on her face. Her tits rising and falling with the breathing that was the only thing she was still managing. Her pussy open, flushed, wet, the seed that had been sealed inside now running freely from the unplugged entrance in warm, thick threads down the inner curve of her ass to the ground below.

Her belly was still slightly rounded.

The swell of retained seed pressing outward below her navel with the obscene, impossible silhouette of a body that has been filled past capacity and is slowly returning to its previous dimensions.

She watched the sky.

The moon.

The stars.

She breathed.

She was still breathing when his hands found her hips.

Both hands — the full, locked grip of him closing around the dense muscle of her waist, his palms spanning her sides, his fingers pressing in with the certainty of a man who has not finished and who intends to demonstrate this clearly.

"Hah—" She turned her head. "Hah— Dragon Lord— hah— I— hah— I am— hah— I cannot— hah— more— I cannot—"

He lifted her.

Not her whole body. Her hips.

His hands under her hips, driving them upward — the angle reversing, her hips rising from the grass, her head staying on the ground, her spine forming the arch of a woman being folded in a direction her body had never been folded.

Her knees came down.

Gravity and the angle bringing them forward and down, her legs folding with the motion, her knees descending toward her chest — toward her tits — the thick, dense flesh of her breasts receiving the impact of her own kneecaps pressing into them from above.

She was folded.

Hips up. Head down. Knees pressing her tits flat against her own chest. The full, impossible, hentai-geometry of a position that a body only achieves when someone larger and stronger has decided it will.

She was a fuckhole.

The thought arrived in her own mind before she could stop it — the raw, unmediated assessment of her current configuration, the position of a woman being held up by her hips with her face on the ground and her ass and pussy presented upward at the angle of an object being used.

Her face was at the level of his feet.

His left foot stepped forward.

The sole of it pressing down against her cheek — not hard, not crushing, the deliberate weight of a man placing his foot on a surface he has decided to use — her face pressing sideways into the grass beneath the ball of his foot, her jaw tilting, her mouth opening slightly from the pressure.

She felt the ground against her cheek and his sole against her cheek and the grass in her hair and none of this had precedent in fifty years of living and fighting and being the strongest person in every room. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

’What... is he doing to me?’