Chapter 893 - 892- Too Peaceful Silence

Chapter 893: Chapter 892- Too Peaceful Silence

Her face flushed crimson to the ears. No one had called the fat widow of the laundry halls cute in twenty years. No one had called her cute ever, if she was honest, not even her late husband, who had treated her more as furniture that cooked.

His head dipped toward her chest. The nipple hooks pulled at her as he nuzzled into the valley of her dress, and his tongue sought her left nipple through the fabric, mouthing at it, hunting. But her heavy breasts had sagged with the years, the nipple pointing down and away, and his tongue found only the soft upper curve.

"I can’t reach it," he said, plainly annoyed by geography.

"Wait, Master. I will."

Her own hand came up, work-roughened and shameless, and she lifted her own breast for him, hoisting the heavy teat, presenting her nipple to his mouth like an offering on a platter. The gesture was so lewdly obedient that he laughed against her skin before he sealed his lips around the fat brown nub and sucked.

"Hnn... Master..."

He took mouthfuls of her. The whole soft front of her breast crowded into his mouth, and her flesh yielded everywhere at once. She moaned, head lolling, feeling the pull of his mouth all the way down in her womb, or where her womb used to ache, anyway.

’My tits never fed a child. All this fat and never a drop for anyone. And now the Master of Millbrook is drinking from me like I am a dairy cow and I am... I am so happy I could cry.’

"Let’s..." she whispered, half senseless, and then caught herself, and said the thing she had said to herself every night since her courses stopped coming twenty years ago.

"I cannot get pregnant, Master." Her voice trembled with the old shame. "I am barren. If you are thinking of... of putting children in me, this body is a field that will not..."

"Shh."

Before she could finish the sentence, she felt it. Something smooth and scaled slid up her inner thigh, and the broad, tapered head of his tail pressed against the hairy lips of her pussy.

’Oh. Oh gods. The tail. The stories the priestesses tell in the mending room. The tail of the Master. The tales I thought were just wine talk.’

The tail shifted lower, dragged over her folds, and its tip grazed the silver base of the plug between her cheeks, sliding down from there to her entrance, and she felt the cool metal and the warm scale in the same stroke, and her hips bucked in his grip.

"Do you want it?"

"Yes," she breathed, instantly, utterly without dignity. "Yes, I want it, Master."

He pushed.

The tail entered her in one slow, merciless inch, and her cry scattered the birds from the hedge. She had not been touched there in six years. Not by a man, not by her own hand with any real intent, and the scaled thickness of him opened her like a key entering a rusted lock, dragging a high, broken noise out of her throat.

"HYAAAH... Master... it is inside... it is..."

Three inches. The tail sank deeper, filling her with a sensation that had no comparison in her long, dull catalog of experience, and then it began to vibrate.

"Nnn... AAAH... AAAAH~!!"

The low hum soaked into her walls, into her clit, into the plug seated behind, until the two pieces of jewelry inside her resonated against each other like bells. Her juices, so long unspent, began to run freely down his scaled length, dripping off her ass in little taps onto the leaves below.

And then, without warning, something changed.

Deep inside her body, in a place no physician had ever been able to name, warmth bloomed. Her breasts prickled. The hooks at her nipples pulled tight, and then her left teat, the one still glistening from his mouth, released a sudden, startling jet of milk across his chest.

"What..." she gasped, watching her own body betray her. "Master, what have you... I am barren, I cannot..."

"Wife package," he said simply, around a mouthful of her tit as he returned to it. "Transferred."

Milk flooded his mouth. He drank in gulps, throat working, and his cock, already thick against her belly, turned to oak against her, twelve inches of rigid, veined heat smearing its need across her soft stomach.

She was still gasping around the vibrating tail when he drew it out of her in one long, wet slide. Her entrance clenched after it, bereft, and her juices trickled after it down her thighs.

"Master, this... please..."

She was shaking. The vibration had left her halfway up a mountain with no summit in sight. Her hips rolled against empty air, her fat breasts swinging, leaking twin lines of milk down her own belly now, mixing with his spit and her want.

"You still have some piss left over," he observed, glancing at the dark patch of hair still glistening at her outer lips. "Come. Let’s get you cleaned."

## Part III: The Pond

"No, Master, no, not the pond, someone will..."

He was already walking, carrying her like a loaf of bread under one arm, and then setting her down on the grassy bank of the garden pond, the lily-still water holding the reflection of them both.

"Skirt up. Legs down."

She obeyed. Skirt at her waist, boots planted on the bank, thighs spread toward the water. He cupped a handful of pond water and poured it over her pussy, and the cold made her yelp and clench around nothing.

"Master, it is cold, it is..."

"Quiet."

And then his fingers were on her.

He washed her slowly. Two fingers, careful and thorough, parting the dark wet hair, sliding between her lips, cleaning the dried stickiness from the sides of her clit with a delicacy that made her want to weep. He was gentle the way a priest is gentle with a relic. Every stroke of his fingers pulled a sound out of her, small at first, then not small at all.

"Master... your hand... it has been... hnn... so long..."

"Tell me how long."

"Six... six years, Master... hnnn... since my husband... he was not... he never did it like... like this..."

"Like what?"

"Like it mattered. Hnn... like I mattered..."

His thumb found her clit and rolled it, slow circles through the wet, and her back arched off the grass, her heavy tits wobbling skyward, milk running in rivers down her sides. Two fingers inside her now, curling, stroking, pressing a spot inside her that no one had ever bothered to find.

"AAAaah... Master... something... something is..."

"Cum."

She screamed.

Her whole body seized. Six years of drought broke open at once, and her pussy squirted around his fingers in hard, rhythmic pulses, spraying her release across the grass, her thighs shaking, her eyes rolled to the whites, her voice cracking into a series of helpless yips.

"AAAaah... aah... ah... Master... Masterrr..."

She lay back on the bank, gasping like a landed fish, skirt ruined, thighs soaked, plug flashing in the sun, while Viktor sat beside her and calmly cleaned his hand in the pond water, looking out over his garden, over the walls, over the rising city, thinking his thoughts, whatever thoughts a man thinks with a screaming widow behind him.

The silence was almost peaceful.