Novel Full Chapter 902: What Margret and Patricia Wants 2(r-18)
Chapter 902: What Margret and Patricia Wants 2(r-18)
Patricia watched—eyes wide, breath shallow, pupils blown so dark they swallowed the hazel—then joined her.
Two MILFs on their knees before me.
Margaret kissed the left side of my torso—slow, reverent drags of lips over ribs, tongue flicking the sensitive skin just beneath my pectoral until the muscle jumped and a low hiss escaped my teeth.
Patricia mirrored her on the right—tentative at first, then bolder, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of muscle, tasting salt and heat and the faint trace of my pulse that hammered faster under her tongue with every wet pull.
They moved in tandem, a silent choreography: Margaret’s teeth grazing hard enough to leave faint red crescents, Patricia’s tongue following to soothe the sting with slow, circling laps, Margaret’s hands sliding up my sides to cup my pecs and squeeze fingers digging in until the muscle flexed and bulged under her palms.
Patricia’s palms flattened against my lower abs and pressing as though she could imprint herself into the skin nails scraping lightly, leaving pale trails that flushed pink in seconds.
They kissed every long inch of my cock.
And trust me, watching these two MILFs blowing me, there was nowhere else I’d rather be.
They looked hot AF.
Margaret’s mouth found a specific spot on my left oblique—and she lingered there, tongue tracing it like she was memorizing the exact shape, sucking gently at the edge until I felt the pull deep in my groin.
Patricia kissed the corresponding spot on my right—smooth, unmarked skin—and made a small, broken sound against it, a soft, needy whimper that vibrated straight through my abs, as though the absence of a scar made the moment more intimate, more fragile.
They worked downward together.
Margaret’s lips brushed the sharp V of my hips, teeth scraping the tendon that disappeared beneath the waistband hard enough to make my cock twitch violently against the confining fabric.
Patricia kissed the center line of my lower abs, slow, open-mouthed pulls that left wet trails shining in the light each one ending with a soft suck that hollowed her cheeks and pulled a low groan from my throat.
Their breaths mingled—hot, uneven—against the sensitive skin just above my cock, each exhale ghosting over the leaking tip and making fresh precum well up in thick, slow beads.
Margaret’s hand slid up my thigh, nails dragging lightly leaving red lines that burned pleasantly. Patricia’s fingers hooked the waistband—trembling again, but determined—and tugged downward in one slow, reverent pull.
The fabric slid over my hips.
My cock sprang free—thick as a wrist, veined like twisted ropes under taut skin, flushed an angry dark pink at the head, already rigid and curving upward with arrogant weight. The broad crownglistened obscenely, precum oozing steadily from the slit in fat, pearly drops that slid down the underside in slow, shining trails and pooled at the base where it met heavy, drawn-tight balls.
It throbbed visibly with each heartbeat, the whole shaft jerking once as blood surged through it, girthy enough that even Margaret’s elegant hands looked small when they wrapped around the base—fingers straining to meet, thumb smearing the leaking precum in slow, deliberate circles until the head shone wet and slick.
They both froze for a heartbeat—staring.
It wasn’t that they were seeing it for the firsts time but one just can’t help it seeing this beauty, just as I can’t help it on their pussies each time.
But Margaret recovered first.
She leaned in and kissed the base—soft, open-mouthed, right where shaft met groin—inhaling the raw, musky scent of me like it was sacrament—then dragged her tongue upward in one long, slow stripe flat and wet, tasting salt and heat and the faint iron tang of precum, ending at the flared ridge of the crown where she swirled around the sensitive frenulum until my hips jerked and a thick rope of precum spurted onto her tongue.
Patricia mirrored her on the other side—tentative kiss at the root, lips trembling as they pressed against the pulsing vein, then a bolder lick, tongue flattening against the underside that jumped and throbbed under the wet heat, drawing a low, guttural groan from deep in my chest.
They met at the head.
I looked at them staring at each other... both here and desperate for a single thing.
Margaret had had me before when Divine Seed had just activated... she was my . I’d cum inside her. Toggle off.
And nothing had happened.
No pregnancy. No spark of life catching despite every biological condition being met.
I’d been inside her, I’d released in her, and her body had accepted it — but nothing grew. Maybe intention mattered.
Maybe Divine Seed needed more than a switched-off toggle.
Maybe it needed the wanting.
The deliberate, conscious, desperate wanting of both parties — the "give me a child" that Linda had sobbed in the shower, the plea that turned biological function into something closer to prayer.
We hadn’t had that intention then. It had been desire, release, pleasure—but not this. Not the specific, pointed, I-want-to-carry-your-child fire that was currently burning in Margaret’s eyes as she pulled back from my cock and breaking Patricia’s contact to look at me—pupils blown black, cheeks flushed crimson, lips parted and glistening like she’d already tasted the future and it was salty and thick.
It was ironic when you give the thought some water... Charlotte was on verge of giving me her love fully and her 26 years old virginity... yet he was her mom on my cock asking me for a child...Charlotte’s future sibling.
"This time," she said. Not asking. A vow. "This time it takes."
More feral than I’d ever seen her. Margaret Thompson—Charlotte’s mother, society wife, woman of composure and pearls and carefully maintained appearances—was looking at me like she wanted to consume me whole and keep whatever grew from the wreckage, like she’d already decided the child would have her cheekbones and my eyes and fuck anyone who tried to stop it.
Her breath came in short, ragged pants, nipples straining visibly against the thin silk of her dress, thighs clenching around my hips like she could force conception through sheer willpower.
They pushed me deeper into the bed. Both of them. Margaret’s hands on my chest—firm, commanding, nails digging into pectorals hard enough to leave crescent moons. Patricia’s on my belt, still trembling but moving with new, desperate purpose—fingers fumbling the buckle open, leather whipping free with a sharp snap that echoed like a starting pistol.