Chapter 221: Assassin Turned Viral Sound

The lights burned hot overhead, the air thick with the scent of polished wood, nervous sweat, and Channel’s faint floral perfume still lingering from her notes. The crowd of nearly two hundred sat frozen, eyes locked on the stage where she’d been mid-sentence about the grand reopening. Her knees had buckled and her top blown off. Her clone with identical curves, same trembling thighs, same slick pink cunt writhed in the hotel room.

Channel’s clone is bent over the hotel bed in front of me, tits swinging, and I don’t feel bad about any of it.

No foreplay. No sweet talk. I don’t kiss her, I don’t whisper anything, I just snag the waistband of her underwear with a tendril of smoke and rip it clean off her hips like wrapping paper on Christmas morning, except instead of a gift I’m the one about to unwrap myself into her.

She’s screaming already, high and cracked, and I can hear it doubled, like an echo bouncing off a wall that isn’t there. One scream from the girl in front of me. One scream, same pitch, same crack.

"EEEEEE! God—fuck—right there!" the clone wailed, hips bucking wildly against my coils. "Don’t stop, whatever you are—please!"

My tail coils up around her thigh, holding her in place, smoke curling off my scales and wrapping her ankle so she can’t twist away even if she wanted to. She doesn’t want to. That’s the sick part. Some deep animal part of her body wants this even while the rest of her is probably screaming internally in a completely different way.

Both cocks slide free at once. I don’t plan it, don’t think about it; it just happens, because right now there’s no difference between what I want and what I do.

I line up and shove into her in one hard thrust, no warm-up, no easing in, and she screams out something that isn’t even a word.

Her hips pistoned against nothing, skirt hiked up, panties soaked through. The mic picked up every broken sob. "Why... why does it feel so fucking good? Yessss—more—more!"

Two hundred pairs of eyes are on her, and she can’t stop moving.

On the stream shes acting like a horny wild animal in front of investors. In front of city councilmen. In front of an influencer with forty million followers who is absolutely filming this on her phone right now with her mouth hanging open.

"Oh my god," someone in the crowd says, and they don’t look scandalised, they seem delighted, like they just got front-row seats to the best show of their entire lives.

"Give the people what they want, baby!" some guy near the front hollers, and the whole section around him laughs and claps like this is a bit, like this is part of the show.

Security is standing at the edges of the room doing absolutely nothing.

She’s tight around both of me, so tight it almost hurts, but the pain doesn’t slow me down, it just makes the low hum in my chest get louder, that stupid cheerful tuneless hum that means the part of my brain that still resembles a person has clocked out for the night.

I slam into her again, my heavy coils smacking against her ass, and the sound is wet and filthy and loud in the quiet hotel room.

"Yes yes yes yes fuck me—" She’s saying it like a chant now, over and over, body shaking, and I don’t slow down, I don’t soften, I just keep driving into her with both cocks stretching her out because this isn’t about her pleasure, this was never about her pleasure. This is about making sure she remembers, every single time she tries to walk normal for the next week, exactly whose territory she stepped into.

"OH SWEET HEAVENNNNNNN!" she screams, eyes rolling back. Her inner muscles fluttered and squeezed around me.

"Take it," I hissed, voice low and rough. "This tight little clone cunt was made for my cocks. Feel that? Both of them stretching you open while your real body’s out there dripping in front of everyone."

"You don’t get to touch what’s mine," I hiss, voice coming out wrong, layered, more hiss than human. "You don’t get to poison her and walk away smiling."

She sobs something that might be an apology and might just be noise; I can’t tell anymore, and honestly I don’t care which one it is.

The clone’s pussy clenches around me, her body trembling, her wings fluttering uselessly. She’s trying to fight it, trying to hold back, but she can’t. I can feel her getting wetter, her juices dripping down my shaft, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

I can hear the real Channel on the stream doing the same. There’s a thudding sound, probably her hands slamming against the podium, and her voice breaks as she begs for more.

I slam into her again and again, my coils snapping forward, my cocks stretching her open, filling her up. The clone’s screams echo in the hotel room, the real Channel’s voice cracking through the casino live stream, the sound of it all mixing together into something raw and desperate. The crowd’s cheers grow louder, their voices blending into a single, hungry roar.

"Cumming—oh god I’m cumming—don’t stop—fill me—fuck me harder—please!"

"Harder—fuck—more—give me everything!" Her voice on the stream pitches higher, turning into a desperate whine. I can picture it perfectly: her fingers shoving under her skirt, rubbing furiously in time with every phantom thrust. The crowd’s quiet tells me they’re watching the same show I’m imagining, horrified, aroused, and unable to look away.

I can feel her getting close. I can feel the way her body tenses, the way her pussy flutters around me, the way her breath hitches. She’s going to come. And when she does, the real Channel will come with her, right there on stage, in front of everyone.

I don’t let up. I keep fucking her, my cocks pounding into her, my tail keeping her locked in place. The clone’s wings beat against the bed, her body writhing, her voice breaking as she begs for more. The real Channel’s voice cracks through the speakers, her words slurring together, her body jerking with every thrust.