Novel Full Chapter 820: Knuckles-Deeep (r-18, minor)
Chapter 820: Knuckles-Deeep (r-18, minor)
Three weeks of lying to herself that this was harmless curiosity—professional interest in the trainer everyone raved about—when every message leaked desperation, when her pussy clenched every time Patricia’s typing bubble appeared, when she had to press her thighs together under the dinner table just thinking about what might arrive.
Patricia hadn’t asked why.
Hadn’t asked about the dreams that soaked Sabrina’s sheets night after night, hadn’t mentioned how Peter’s eyes had burned into her across the candlelit table while Madison’s hand rested possessively on his thigh.
Hadn’t voiced the obvious: that Sabrina was starving for something she wasn’t allowed to want.
But Patricia knew.
She always fucking knew.
What Sabrina could never have imagined—what would have shattered her if she’d known—was that earlier days before... Patricia had sent one more text.
To Madison.
"Your mother’s been begging for weeks. Should I send it?"
Madison, sprawled naked across Peter’s broad chest in the estate’s master bedroom, skin still flushed from the orgasm he’d just fucked out of her, had read the message and licked her lips.
A slow, wicked smile spread.
"Send what she wants," she replied. "Do not starve my mother any more than she already has."
Thumbs-up emoji.
"It’s time Mom stopped fighting it."
Sabrina pressed play.
The screen ignited in warm amber glow—the penthouse living room transformed into a den of sin: the air thick with the scent Sabrina could almost smell through the phone.
Patricia’s face filled the frame first: cheeks scarlet, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and parted on a guttural, animal moan that Sabrina had never once heard from her elegant, always-composed friend.
Behind her, bodies writhed in slow, deliberate motion. Priya’s midnight hair whipping as her back arched impossibly, Janet’s thick hips grinding down in filthy figure-eights. And at the absolute center—commanding gravity itself—was him.
Broad shoulders slick with sweat. Veins standing out on powerful forearms. The deep-cut V of his abdomen flexing with every controlled roll of his hips.
Sabrina’s breath punched out of her lungs.
The camera teased cruelly: no full face yet, only fragments—a corded forearm pinning Priya’s wrists high above her head so her breasts thrust forward, a muscular thigh wedging between Janet’s quivering legs to spread her wider, the thick root of his cock disappearing again and again into glistening, stretched cunt.
But Sabrina knew.
She fucking knew.
Her free hand flew to her mouth to muffle the broken whimper that escaped anyway.
Then the lens panned up—slow, deliberate, merciless.
Light kissed the razor-sharp line of a jaw she’d traced in her mind a thousand times. Caught the same eyes that had stripped her bare at the dinner table while her daughter giggled and stroked his arm.
Eros.
Peter.
The same man.
Her daughter’s lover.
Her friends’ lover.
The cock that had been stretching Madison open every night for months now, the same thick shaft that had ruined Patricia, Priya, Janet, Victoria, Anya, Ortega—one by one—until they all came back to the group chat glowing and ruined and begging for more.
Sabrina’s thighs splayed wide on the cool silk, knees falling apart with a soft thud.
Her thumb dragged across her clit—already engorged, slick, pulsing like a second heartbeat—and began tight, frantic circles.
"Ohhh... fuck..." A raw, needy sound tore from her throat.
On screen he fisted Patricia’s hair in one brutal hand, yanking her head back to expose the long column of her throat. His mouth descended—biting, sucking, marking—while his hips snapped forward in deep, punishing thrusts that made Patricia’s whole body seize and her voice fracture into high, shattered cries.
"Yes—fuck—right there—harder—" Patricia’s pleas filled the speakers, obscene and desperate.
Sabrina’s two fingers shoved beneath the drenched black lace, spread her sopping folds wide, then plunged inside—knuckle-deep in one greedy stroke.
The stretch burned so good she gasped aloud.
She imagined it was him—not fingers, but that thick, veined cock currently splitting Patricia open. The same cock that made Madison scream his name every night. The same cock she’d fantasized about stealing, about taking deep while her daughter slept in the next room.
Her fingers curled viciously, hammering that swollen front wall until her hips snapped up off the bed.
"Fuck... yes... like that..." she hissed into the empty mansion.
On screen he withdrew from Patricia with a wet, filthy sound—his cock glistening, veins throbbing, slick with her arousal—then drove straight into Priya without missing a beat. The woman’s eyes rolled back; a sharp, delighted scream ripped from her throat as he bottomed out.
Sabrina matched him thrust for thrust.
Fingers slamming deeper, faster—palm slapping wetly against her clit with every plunge, obscene squelching sounds echoing in the silent bedroom.
Her other hand clawed the sheet, nails digging crescents into silk.
She pictured Madison walking in right now—seeing her mother legs spread, cunt stuffed with fingers, phone propped so she could watch the man who owned her daughter’s pussy fucking their friends senseless.
The taboo image sent a violent gush of slick down her wrist.
"He’s... he’s fucking them all..." Sabrina panted, voice cracking. "And Madison... lets him... wants him to... shares him..."
Another brutal thrust on screen.
Janet’s moan broke into sobs of pleasure.
Sabrina’s fingers fucked her pussy harder—three now, stretching herself wider, chasing the burn.
She imagined him turning, stepping out of the frame, crossing the room to her bed.
Imagined him pinning her wrists above her head the way he’d pinned Priya.
Imagined that thick head nudging her entrance, then slamming home in one ruthless stroke.
"Beg for it, Sabrina," his voice would rasp against her ear. "Beg for the cock your daughter comes on every fucking night. Beg me to ruin this neglected married cunt while Madison watches."
Her thumb mashed her clit—frantic, punishing circles.
Hips bucking wildly.
"I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—"
On screen he looked straight into the camera.
Just once.
A slow, predatory, filthy smile curled his lips.
As if he could see her—legs splayed, fingers buried to the knuckles, cunt clenching and dripping for him.
As if he knew she was about to shatter thinking of him breeding her next.
Sabrina’s spine bowed off the mattress.
A raw, guttural sob ripped from her chest.
Her cunt clamped down viciously around her thrusting fingers—spasm after spasm after spasm—hot, wet pulses flooding her palm, thighs quaking, toes curling so hard they cramped.
Tears spilled down her temples from the sheer, shameful force of it.
She kept grinding her palm against her oversensitive clit through the aftershocks—milking every last tremor, drawing out the filthy waves until her whole body shook like she’d been electrocuted.
On screen he never stopped—kept fucking, kept owning, kept claiming every hole, every moan.
And Sabrina—still trembling, still leaking slick onto the ruined silk, heart hammering so hard she could taste it—understood with a sick, electric rush that one orgasm was nowhere near enough.
Her cunt was still fluttering, still hungry.
She reached for the phone with cum-slick fingers.
Thumb hovering over replay.
Already aching.
Already dripping again.
Already whispering his name into the dark like a prayer and a curse.
"Peter... Eros... please..."