nyslfriends Chapter 635 - 634- The Pain of Tit Grab
Chapter 635 - 634- The Pain of Tit Grab
He looked at Evriana.She was dazed. Flushed. Her lips swollen from the kiss. Her nipple — still bare, still wet — stiff and aching. Her eyes were half-closed, the particular, drunk-on-arousal, I-want-more expression that he recognized.
She nodded.
The nod was small. Reluctant. The nod of a woman who wanted to say ’no, do not help him, do not stop, keep kissing me, keep touching me, keep —’ but who was a princess and a commander and could not let a prisoner die.
Viktor chuckled.
He spread his thighs. Moving Evriana — sliding her from his center to his right thigh, her body settling on the muscle, her boob pressing against his chest. His cock — freed from the crack of her ass — sprang upward. The thick, dark, veined length of it standing between his legs, the head crimson, the shaft slick with pre-cum.
Evriana gasped.
The cock — now visible, now free, now pointing at the ceiling — was directly in front of her. Close. Three inches from her face. She could see the veins. The ridge of the head. The dark, flushed color of the skin. The small, glistening bead of fluid at the tip.
Her hand moved.
She did not decide to move it. Her hand — as if controlled by something other than her brain — reached for his cock. Her fingers — delicate, the princess-soft, never-calloused fingers that had held swords but never a man — wrapped around the shaft.
Two hands.
She needed two hands. Her fingers could not wrap around his girth with one. The cock was too thick — the diameter exceeding her palm span, the flesh warm and hard and pulsing under her grip.
She stroked.
The motion was clumsy. Unpracticed. The uncertain, experimental, first-time grip of a woman who was touching a cock for the first time and was trying to replicate what she had seen Dara do. The up-and-down, grip-and-slide motion that she had observed from behind a tree and was now executing with her own hands on her own nephew’s cock.
Viktor looked at her.
"Aren’t you eager?" he said.
Her face flushed.
"I am just trying to help you," she said.
The lie was transparent. The particular, I-am-obviously-lying, my-hand-is-on-your-cock-and-I-am-stroking-it, do-you-think-I-am-doing-this-for-medical-purposes falsehood that a woman tells when she cannot admit the truth.
He looked at the cloaked woman.
The demon was frozen. Staring at his cock. At Evriana’s hands on it. At the size. The girth. The particular, devastating, impossible proportions of a human man’s genitalia that exceeded anything she had seen on any species — human, demon, or beast.
His balls hung below. Heavy. Egg-sized. The thick, round, seed-filled sac that swung beneath his cock, the skin dusted with dark hair, the weight visible, the volume obscene.
The crimson veins covered his shaft — the dark, prominent, branching lines that ran the length of his cock, feeding the erection, carrying the blood that kept it hard.
The cock looked like it was designed to tear women apart.
Not to breed them. Not to pleasure them. To destroy them. The particular, weapon-like, too-large-for-any-purpose-except-violence appearance of a cock that was a tool of domination rather than reproduction.
The demon woman had seen horses. The breeding stallions on the demon estates — the massive, muscular, hung animals that the demon lords kept for cavalry. She had seen their cocks. Their thickness. Their volume.
This was bigger.
Her whole body trembled.
She looked at Evriana’s hands. The princess’s delicate, soft, noble fingers wrapping around the shaft — two hands, and still not enough to cover it, the head and several inches of shaft visible above her grip. She was stroking. Up and down. The motion slow, uncertain, but devoted.
The demon woman was confused.
’Do all human males have this?’
She controlled demons. Monsters. She had seen thousands of them — the humanoid ones, the beast ones, the ones that walked and the ones that crawled. She had seen their cocks. Their mating habits. Their anatomy.
None of them were this big.
’No,’ she thought. ’Not all humans. I have seen humans. Their males are small. Thin. This one is — this one is a monster.’
She recalled. The battlefield. The thousands of dead monsters. The hovering. The swords. The healing. The skeleton — the peak elite grade construct that she had spent weeks building, that she had fed a thousand corpses, that was supposed to be unkillable — defeated in minutes.
And this man. This human. This walking catastrophe who had done it all with a sword and a smile.
He was not human.
He was a monster wearing a human skin.
Viktor chuckled.
He was holding Evriana’s boob. Lifting it — the heavy, dense, pale flesh rising in his palm, the weight substantial, the breast overflowing his grip. He licked it. His tongue dragging across the curve, from the underside to the nipple, the flat, broad, hot contact of a tongue on breast flesh.
He sucked the nipple.
The wet, sealing, suctioning contact that made Evriana moan — the sound escaping her throat, soft and broken, her hand tightening on his cock.
He pulled off.
The nipple — swollen, dark, wet — emerged from his lips with a ’pop’. The peak was raw. Engorged. The areola tightened, puckered, the flesh around it red from suction.
He looked at the cloaked woman.
"She wants to suck my cock," he said.
The words were directed at the demon. The casual, warm, conversational tone of a man making an observation about the weather while holding a woman’s boob and displaying his erection.
The demon woman flinched.
"What?" she said. "What are you saying? I would never — you filthy human!!"
The demon woman’s refusal hung in the cave air like a slap.
Viktor didn’t flinch. His violet eyes stayed on her — calm, patient, the particular, unblinking, predatory gaze of a man who had heard the word ’never’ from enough women to know it was temporary.
Evriana’s hand was still on his cock.
She hadn’t stopped stroking. The motion — slow, uncertain, devoted — continued even as the demon woman protested, even as the boyfriend struggled against the vines, even as the cave filled with the wet, rhythmic, unmistakable sound of a hand on a shaft.
The demon woman trembled.
Her thighs pressed together — the particular, involuntary, defensive response of a woman whose body was reacting to a stimulus her mind had not approved. Her black bodysuit clung to her frame, the fabric tight across her chest, and through the material, her nipples had tightened. The stiff, dark peaks pressing outward, visible, the particular, betraying, involuntary evidence of arousal that her clothing could not conceal.
Viktor’s hand found her.
His left hand — the one not holding Evriana’s boob — reached across. His fingers found the demon woman’s right breast through the black fabric. He groped. Not gently. The particular, rough, squeezing, possessive grip of a man who was assessing ownership, his fingers sinking into the dense, warm flesh, his palm covering the nipple, his thumb pressing the stiff peak.
She gasped.
The sound was sharp, involuntary, the particular, surprised, I-was-not-prepared-for-this gasp of a woman whose breast had just been grabbed by a hand that was harder, rougher, more calloused than any hand she had felt before.
Her boyfriend — the demon man tied in the vines — was not rough. His touches were gentle, careful, the tender, considerate, respectful contact of a man who loved a woman and treated her accordingly.
This was not that.
This was a hand that grabbed. That claimed. That took.
"HIEEEKKK~~~ IT HURTS!?"