Chapter 299 - Taking Bath with My Wives

Her eyes rolled.

The involuntary, back-rolling quality of pupils losing their anchored forward position—drifting upward as her nervous system overloaded with the simultaneous inputs of his cock in her mouth and his fingers twisting inside her and the accumulated exhaustion of everything before. Her jaw went slack.

His cock slid deeper.

The natural consequence of the slack jaw—the easy, gravity-assisted forward press of his hips, his cock following the path her opened mouth offered, pressing past the back of her tongue with the slow, deliberate quality of a man who had been waiting for that opening.

"Mnngh—?! Hmmnnh—!!"

The sound was different now. Deeper. The wet, full, obstructed quality of a throat receiving something it had been given no choice about—her neck extending slightly, her eyes still rolling, the tears coming faster with the involuntary response of a body being used beyond what it had agreed to.

He reached back.

The smooth, single-handed quality of it—his free arm reaching behind him to Avriana’s still form on the mattress. His fingers found her shoulder. He pulled.

The firm, unhurried, directional pull—not rough, but non-negotiable—rolling Avriana’s limp body from its stomach position with the easy quality of a man repositioning something that belonged to him. Avriana’s body moved with the boneless, exhausted compliance of someone too depleted to protest even if she had wanted to.

She was placed beneath him.

Her back flat on the mattress, her chest beneath his face—the attending quality of a man who had looked at the geometry of the situation and arrived at an arrangement. Avriana lay below his mouth. Mira’s face lay below his cock.

Two women. One above. One below.

His lips found Avriana’s nipple.

PAAH.

The abrupt, full, hard suction—not gentle, not attending. He pulled the nipple into his mouth with the flat, hungry quality of a man taking something he wanted. Avriana’s body registered it even in its depleted state, her spine arching with the helpless, automatic quality of nerve-endings that had not stopped working.

"Hnn—!!"

The small, fractured sound from her—her voice barely there, scraped raw from everything before, but the sound arriving anyway. Her fingers twitched against the sheets.

The glow.

Mira saw it from below his body—Avriana’s skin, the pulse of light beneath the surface, stronger now. The warm, interior luminescence of something accelerating. The twitching fingers. The arching spine.

’She’s—’

PAH. PAH.

His hips began to move.

The flat, driving, relentless forward motion—his cock withdrawing from Mira’s throat and returning with the quality of a man who had decided this mouth was going to be treated like the other things he had used tonight. Not careful. Not attending. The full, pistonned quality of a man fucking a passage that happened to be a mouth.

"UMMMBGH—!!! UMMNGHHH—!!"

The muffled, broken, wet sounds filled the room.

Her throat worked. The involuntary swallowing reflex—her body doing its best to accommodate something it had not been built for in this quantity, this depth, this rhythm. Tears tracked freely now, streaming with the automatic overflow of eyes that had received the signal from the gag reflex and were producing fluid in response.

His mouth ravaged Avriana’s breast.

The hard, sustained suction—his teeth grazing the nipple with the attending quality of a man who had learned exactly how much pressure produced what particular sound. He pulled the second nipple between his lips, sucked hard, alternating, his tongue working with the same thoroughness he had applied to everything tonight.

Avriana’s back arched higher.

The glow intensified.

PAH. PAH. PAAAH.

"UMMMBGH—!!! UMMNGHHH—!!! I... WIILL—!! D-DIDEE—!!"

Her hand went to his ass.

The desperate, involuntary grab—her palm finding the firm, driving muscle of his glute and clutching with the full, white-knuckled quality of a drowning woman finding a surface. Not pushing. Not resisting. ’Holding.’

The contradicted, helpless, entirely trained response of a body that had been brought here over hours and was now gripping the thing that was destroying it.

PAH. PAH. PAAAH.

The room filled with it.

"Unnhnng....!! Hhnnghh....!!"

"Aahnn... Shhh... Ahhh... i-it hurts..."

"Haaah...."

He came with a low groan.

The kind that didn’t ask for the room’s attention—just arrived, deep and private, from the base of his chest. And Mira’s eyes rolled back completely as her throat received what it was given, her whole body flinching once, the wet, muffled sound she produced carrying everything she couldn’t articulate.

Avriana watched.

That was the thing—she watched. From where she sat, swollen and aching and already crying, she watched Mira’s eyes go white and she cried harder, and couldn’t explain to herself why.

He held still a moment.

Just long enough for his magic to do what it needed to do—the attending warmth of it moving through Mira’s throat with the quiet, invisible quality of something making sure the architecture held. She was alive. Breathing around him in thin, functional increments.

Then he pulled out.

He looked down.

Mira lay between his legs—eyes still rolled, lips parted, the wet quality of everything he’d left behind glistening at the corner of her mouth. Her chest rose. Fell. Rose again.

He chuckled.

Soft. Genuine.

The sound of a man who had looked at something he’d made and found it exactly right.

He turned to Avriana.

Her arms were already crossed over her chest—the automatic, protective curl of a woman whose nipples had been bitten red and swollen past what soft contact was welcome. She didn’t look at him. Her jaw was set in the specific way of a woman whose crying had moved past the loud stage into the private, sustained, this-is-simply-what-my-face-is-doing-now stage.

He reached for her anyway.

One hand. Her wrist. The firm, unhurried tug that brought her to her feet with the bounce and jiggle of overtaxed flesh that hadn’t been warned about sudden movement—she made a sound at that, sharp and pained and bitten off—and then she was standing.

Then he reached for Mira.

His hands found her breasts.

Not gentle, not rough—direct. His palms closed and pulled upward, and Mira’s wince was immediate, a small, involuntary sound escaping her as her body was leveraged upright by the most sensitive things available. Her eyes came partway forward. She blinked once, twice. The rolled quality gave way to the flat, surviving quality of a woman reassembling consciousness from whatever room it had retreated to.

Standing. Barely.

"Come on." He looked between them. Easy. Unbothered. The voice of a man whose night was simply progressing to its next stage. "Ladies. Bath."

Neither of them said anything.

He didn’t wait.

He pulled them both.

One arm around Mira’s waist, one around Avriana’s—and they were against him simultaneously, the full soft press of two exhausted bodies finding the warmth of his chest before they’d decided to. Mira’s pregnant belly rounded against his ribs. Her breasts—heavy, milk-tender—settled against him with the kind of soft, full weight that didn’t have a clean word for it. Avriana’s swollen chest pressed into his other side and she flinched but didn’t pull away.

His heartbeat was steady.

That was the thing neither of them had been prepared for.

He walked them through the bathroom door like that.

The tub was deep and already steaming by the time he settled into it—the water finding the level of his chest, the stone warm, the room carrying the flat, clean quality of heat doing its work. He sat.

He pulled them down onto his lap.

Both of them.

Mira to his left, her belly floating slightly with the gentle, attending quality of buoyancy finally giving her weight somewhere to go.

Avriana to his right, hissing when the water found her nipples, her hands coming up before she stopped them and pressed them back down.

"Well, I think you both needed some water even after being filled."