Chapter 779 Twenty-Five Years of Sacred Thirst (r-18)

I lined up again—bloated head lodged firmly against her tiny, dripping entrance, stretching her outer lips wide just from the pressure. The contrast was pornographic: my massive, veined cock dwarfing her delicate, flushed, ruined pussy, cameras capturing every glistening detail.

Her chest heaved, tits bouncing with each frantic breath. Her eyes locked on mine—wide, wet, glassy with tears and feral need.

I leaned over her, one hand braced beside her head, the other guiding myself.

I entered her—slow, deliberate, inch by torturous inch.

The big crown of my cock first kissed her entrance—pressing against that still-twitching, hypersensitive rim that had just been tongue-fucked to ruin. Her outer lips, swollen and dark rose, peeled back like overripe petals the moment the crown nudged inside.

A soft, wet squelch filled the air as her cream-coated folds parted for me, clinging immediately to the flared ridge like they recognized their god and refused to let go.

She gasped—sharp, high, almost pained—and her pussy reacted instantly: the tight ring of muscle fluttered wildly around just the head, spasming in frantic little contractions that tried to suck me deeper while simultaneously fighting the impossible stretch.

Thick, creamy arousal welled up around the intrusion, leaking out in hot, slippery pulses that coated the first two inches of my shaft in glossy white. Her inner walls rippled visibly—quivering, clenching, weeping—as though every nerve ending was waking up at once after twenty-five years of starvation.

"Peter—oh fuck—" she moaned, voice cracking on the first syllable, raw and reverent. Her thighs trembled violently around my hips, inner muscles jumping against my skin. She crawled the sheets on verge of breaking. "It's so thick… stretching me… gods… it's been so long since I..."

I fed her another inch—slow, merciless—watching her face contort in pure, overwhelmed ecstasy.

Her entrance stretched thinner, ghostly pale around the dark, veined girth, the delicate skin pulling taut. Fresh slick gushed out in a slow, viscous wave, dripping down my shaft to coat my heavy balls.

Her clit—still fat and throbbing from my tongue—jerked visibly against my pubic bone with every tiny advance, sending electric shivers up her spine that made her whole body arch.

Three inches. Four. Five.

Her moans turned into broken, sobbing prayers—each one higher, needier: "Peter—yes—deeper—please—"

"I feel every vein… fuck… it's splitting me open…"

"Don't stop—don't you dare stop—"

At seven inches—half my length buried inside her starving cunt—I stopped.

Completely.

I held there—motionless—letting the moment become legendary.

Her pussy had been starving for twenty-five years. Twenty-five years of untouched hunger of clenched emptiness, of nights spent fingering herself to unsatisfying ghosts while dreaming of exactly this: a massive, thick, veined cock finally claiming what had always belonged to it.

And now—here it was—seven throbbing inches stretching her open, filling the void that had ached for a quarter-century.

The sensation hit me like a thunderclap.

Her walls clamped down around those seven inches like a living fist—hot, slick, desperate—rippling in endless, greedy contractions that milked me without rhythm, without mercy. Every flutter felt like a mouth sucking me deeper; every spasm sent fresh ripples and cream flooding around my shaft in hot, pulsing waves.

The heat was unbearable—velvet fire wrapped around me, tighter than anything I'd ever felt, tighter than youth, tighter than experience should allow. Her inner ridges dragged along every bulging vein, the prominent underside ridge pressed flush against that perfect front-wall spot that made her sob my name over and over.

I could feel her heartbeat through her cunt—rapid, frantic, pounding against my cock like a war drum.

I could feel the way her pussy wept for more—thick ropes of cream leaking out around my base, sliding down to soak my balls, dripping in slow, obscene strings onto the sheets. I could feel the way her body remembered starvation and now refused to let go—walls spasming, clenching, fluttering in chaotic gratitude, as though terrified this was only a dream and I might vanish.

It nearly undid me. Like the same way it did with mom, Catherine, Rebecca, Patricia.

My balls drew up tight, the base of my spine tingling with the sudden, brutal urge to come right there—right then—flooding her starving depths with everything I had. The pressure built in vicious waves: her cunt milking me so perfectly, so hungrily, that every tiny ripple felt like the edge of release.

I gritted my teeth, thighs trembling, abs clenched hard enough to hurt, fighting the instinct to thrust, to pound, to claim fully.

But I didn't move.

I savored.

I leaned down—still buried seven inches deep—and kissed her like she was sacred.

First her mouth—slow, deep, devotional—tongue sliding against hers, tasting the salt of her tears, the copper of her bitten lip, the lingering sweetness of her own pussy still on my tongue. She moaned into me—long, shattered—hands clutching my shoulders like I was the only thing tethering her to earth.

Then I moved lower.

I kissed the frantic pulse at the base of her throat—sucking gently until a fresh bruise bloomed under my lips.

Down the elegant line of her collarbone—tongue tracing the delicate ridge, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.

Across the soft swell of her medium tits—perfect handfuls, nipples dark and painfully tight. I took one into my mouth—sucking slow and deep, tongue swirling around the hard peak while my hand cupped the other, thumb flicking the nipple in lazy circles.

She arched—back bowing—offering herself higher, moaning my name in broken syllables: "Peter—suck them—please—harder—"

I obliged—drawing the nipple deeper, teeth grazing the sensitive bud, then releasing with a wet pop only to latch onto the other. Her tits heaved under my mouth, skin flushed and glistening with sweat, nipples swelling fatter under the relentless suction.

I kissed every inch of her upper body—sternum, ribs, the tender undersides of her breasts—leaving slow, open-mouthed trails of worship while my cock stayed exactly where it was: seven inches deep in her starving, spasming cunt.

She was sobbing now—tears streaming, chest heaving, pussy clenching in endless, grateful waves around those seven inches.

"Peter… I've waited… so long…"

"Don't move… just… stay… let me feel you…"

I pressed my forehead to hers—breath ragged, voice wrecked with awe and possession.

"Twenty-five years," I rasped against her lips. "This pussy has been starving for twenty-five fucking years… and now it's finally full of me."