Terms of Endearment │Part I: The Princess and the Rogue

Chapter 36: Full

"You awake, sweetling?"

You grizzle cantankerously at the susurration of sound exhaled against your throat, turning your face into the downy cushion as though to block out the encroaching awareness. More breaths; a chuckle.

"That's alright, poppet. You sleep. I'll just—"

Cognizance enters your mind with a velvety thud, in tandem with the pushing of a cock between your folds and an unyielding glide in in in. You choke on air as you are spread apart, too small for a too-large intrusion, throbbing and burning and aching with the brusque breach of your most vulnerable place. It scores you open, strips you bare, forces you to blossom before you are ready.

"Uh."

You bite into the fabric next to your mouth for comfort. You are caught between unconsciousness and wakefulness, between the man above you and the mattress below, between the threat of pain and the promise of pleasure.

He is too—too—

"Good girl, it's alright—sh," Daemon murmurs in your ear, withdrawing slightly before grinding back in, snugged against your back wall and sending a ricochet of throbbing soreness through your belly.

You sniffle, trying and failing to coordinate your limbs, to reach under yourself and push up for purchase. A hand grips the back of your neck, holding you down.

"Behave," your uncle says, thrusting gently and firmly, groaning as you hiccup and clench around him. "I didn't tell you to move."

It is easier to please him than to protest. You settle down resignedly, closing your eyes and letting your husband do what he wants. There are vague sparks of raw euphoria skittering along the walls of your cunny and pulsing at your pearl, but you are too lethargic to grasp them fully. Slowly, the parting is easier, the slide of his cock a lulling rock and bump that pitches you into a state of blissful stupor, warm and slick and simple. Your mouth lolls open, drooling against the pillow as he works his hips, panting onto your exposed shoulder.

He sways into you, whispering all the while. "Litses riñus... skoriot sytilībā kesir issa, iksos daor? Aōho valzȳro gō, zȳha hynga mazōrere, ziry iemnȳ irughos botare." Pretty girl, he tells you, this is where you belong, isn't it? Beneath your husband, taking his cock, letting him spend inside. He continues, switching back to the Common Tongue. "Do you like that? Do you like belonging to me?"

Pretty girl. Belong to him. His his his. Your dreamy thoughts latch onto his words, and you find yourself nodding shakily in reply.

He huffs a humid breath against your cheek. "That's a girl."

The softness of his tone is at odds with the inexorable presence of him inside you, the bulk of his frame blanketing you in heat and squeezing the air from your lungs, leaving you lightheaded and utterly powerless.

He is so, so warm, hugged up over your supine form and driving unrelentingly in, his hips patting against your rear in an assuasive rhythm. Dimly, you register the sucking squelch of your cunt as he slots in and back out, gliding against your sensitised walls and sparking frissons that make you feel woozy and quivery. For a moment, the strength of it is enough to elicit pangs of almost-nausea, a rising tautness that your sluggish body does not know how to handle.

Each time he knocks into the entrance to your womb, you cant forward into the pillow below your hips, creating a sodden surface that teases at your pearl, skittering embers that tingle the tips of your breasts and clamp in your gut. "Do you know what I'm doing right now? I'm fucking a babe into you. I'm seeding my little niece. You're going to carry my heir, show off how deep Uncle got in this perfect cunt, remind everyone you're mine. Isn't that right, riñītsos?"