Chapter 245 - Vikram Getting Cucked Hard

Her whisper disintegrated into the moan and then scrambled back. "F—four times. You know how many— you were there—"

"Mm." The noncommittal sound of a man filing information.

He fucked her through three slow, full thrusts before he spoke again.

’Pah. Pah. Pah.’

"Mmnh— Raven— mngh— the other patient—"

"What about them."

’Pah.’

"AHH— mm—" Palm. Hand. Muffled. Leaking through the gaps of her fingers. "Please— it’s— I can’t be this loud—"

"You keep being this loud."

"Because you keep— ngh— doing that—"

’Pah. Pah.’

"MMPH—!!♡"

On the other side of the curtain, Vikram heard his wife make the sound.

The sound she made.

The specific, unmistakable, broken-off version of the thing she made when she was very close.

He knew what that sound was.

His hand left the bed rail.

He tried to sit up. His body registered the attempt and sent a white, comprehensive rejection from his ribs, his shoulder, his head all at once. He dropped back to the pillow. His breath came out in a hissing rush.

He lay there.

He stared at the ceiling.

On the other side of the curtain, the sounds continued.

’Pah. Pah. Pah.’

"Raven— Raven— I— it’s— too hard— please—I-I can’t feel me lower bod—IANNGH~~~!!"

The man’s voice, low and unhurried: "Too hard. Or not hard enough."

"Too— mngh— too hard— you’ll wake—"

"Your husband wasn’t enough for you," the voice said.

A pause.

Just the sound of what was happening. The wet, rhythmic fact of it filling the dark room.

"What—?" Her voice. Confused. Breathless.

"Small." A statement. Delivered with the flat, factual register of a man reading a measurement off a gauge. "I’m guessing."

"That’s— that’s not—"

’PAH.’

"MMNGH—!! ♡♡—"

The sound tore through her palm-filter and hit the room at full volume for one full second before she caught it again. Her breathing, ragged now, audible even through the curtain.

"Don’t— don’t say that—" she whispered. Defensive. Hurt in it. "He’s my—"

’Pah. Pah.’

"Mngh— ngh—"

"He was never this deep," the voice said. Still quiet. Still the same low, unhurried register.

"Stop—"

"Your body knows the difference."

"Please stop talking—"

’PAH. PAH.’

"HHNG—!! Mngh— ohhh—"

Her milk.

Even through the curtain, Vikram could hear it — the sharp, involuntary sound she made when it released, the specific hitching-breath of her that he had only heard once before in a different context when they had been preparing and the doctor had explained—

The wet sound of it.

Her breath, in fragments.

"It’s — it’s coming out again—" Her whisper, mortified, helpless. "Every time you— ngh—"

"I know."

’Pah. Pah.’

The shadows on the curtain changed again.

Vikram watched without wanting to watch and could not stop watching. The silhouette repositioning — her body being moved, lifted, turned. Her legs. The man’s arm around her from behind, the round belly cradled in the crook of his elbow like something precious. Her back against his chest. The standing-cradle position, her feet barely on the mattress, his hips the engine of everything.

’PAH. PAH. PAH.’

"Ohhh—!! Mmnh— MMNH—!!♡"

Full voice. She caught it, half-caught it, lost it. The palm over her mouth not catching enough of it.

"Aaahh— Raven— I— I’m going to—"

’PAH. PAH.’

"AAHHNGH—!!♡♡—"

Her orgasm hit the room like a struck bell.

The shadow on the curtain was very clear. The arc of her body against his. The round, swollen belly visible in silhouette. Her legs, hanging. Her hands, gripping his forearm where it was wrapped below her belly.

Vikram had tears running from the outer corners of his eyes.

He had not noticed when they had started.

He could not make a sound. His throat was raw and broken and nothing would come through.

He lay in his hospital bed and watched the shadow of his pregnant wife orgasm in another man’s arms three feet away behind a curtain while the sounds of it filled the silent room.

She was still shaking when he brought her back to the mattress.

The post-orgasm trembling of a woman who had been brought there four times inside of one night and whose body had not yet relearned the baseline. Her thighs were wet. Her breasts were damp and full and releasing in small, helpless trickles with every uneven breath she took.

He positioned her on her back.

Her hands found the belly automatically — the gesture she always made, even now, even like this. Both palms over the round swell. The checking gesture. The ’still here, still okay’ quality of it.

He spread her thighs.

"Raven—" The whispered protest. Still breathless. Still in the overwhelmed register. "I already— four times— you already came inside me four times—"

"I know," he said.

"I can feel it," she whispered. The raw honesty of exhaustion eliminating the filters. "Every time. I can feel it still inside me. All of it. You filled me completely and I can—"

"And?"

A pause.

The pause of someone whose body was answering a question the mind was refusing to.

"And I— ngh—"

He was already there. Already finding the entrance with the practiced certainty of a man who knew this address very well by now. The heat of her — the used, overfull, exhausted heat of a body that had been sealed and sealed and sealed again.

The crimson head pressing forward.

"MMNH—!"

Her back arched. Both hands pressing on the belly in the reflexive protection gesture while the rest of her body rose off the mattress.

"Raven— plea— please—" The whispering, urgent, broken quality of it. "I am telling you— this is— we agreed— this would be the last time—"

’Schlkkk.’

"AAHHNG—!!♡"

The word ’last’ dissolved in the sound.

He settled his palm on her belly.

The warm, round, full swell of it. The living warmth inside pressing back against his palm.

"Last time," he said. Quietly. Looking at his own hand on her belly.

"Yes," she breathed. The exhaled certainty of someone who needed it to be true. "After tonight— I— I have to think about— he’s my husband, Raven, he’s—"

’Pah.’

"Mm— ngh—"

"He never made you feel this," the voice said.

"Stop—"

"Did he."

"Stop saying that—"

’Pah. Pah.’

"MNGH—!! Hh—"

"His cock must have been—"

"STOP—"

The word came out at full volume and she caught it, horror flooding her face, both hands over her mouth. Her eyes wide. The frozen quality of someone who had just blown the one rule.

Silence.

The hospital room breathed.

Vikram, on the other side of the curtain, heard her.

He heard the clarity of her voice.

He heard that she was not telling the man to stop because she did not want this. He heard that she was telling him to stop ’saying those things about her husband.’ He heard the hurt in it.

He did not know that.

He heard: ’stop.’

And the man’s voice, after a beat, low and amused: "Stop what."

And then the flesh sound.

’PAH.’

And her voice, broken: "Ohhhh— god— hhng—"

And no more stopping.

’PAH. PAH.’

"Mnngh~! Oungh~!! HIEK~!!"

’PAH. PAH. PAH.’

"AANNGH~!! Hhng~!! MMPH~!!♡♡"

The pace was not the midnight slowness anymore. He had shifted. The deep, driving cadence of someone who had decided on an endpoint and was building toward it.

Her legs, pushed back. Her belly between them. Her breasts swinging with each thrust, heavy and full, the milk releasing in small spurts with each impact — the wet-heat of it striping her own stomach.

’PAH. PAH.’

"Hngh~! Mngh~!! AAH~!!♡"

Her voice was past managing.

She had given up managing it three thrusts ago. The sound was coming out in the direct, unfiltered stream of a body that had run out of the infrastructure to regulate it. The hospital room was small. There was only a curtain.

"H— harder— ngh— don’t— wait— it’s too—"

’PAH.’

"AAHHNG~!!♡♡"