Chapter 390: Chapter 389- Treating my Wives Well

“We will handle everything, husband~~~”

The word ’husband’ came in stereo — Mira’s lower, amused, the word landing like a hand of cards placed face-up; Helena’s warmer, rounder, the kind of word Helena said the way you say something you’ve been holding in your mouth and finally decided to actually say.

Viktor looked at both of them.

At Mira’s crimson-green eyes carrying the heart-shapes and the specific gleam of a woman who had already run the logistics.

At Helena’s warm brown ones, patient and entirely certain.

He breathed.

“I’m not doing anything,” he said.

Both of them were already moving toward the bedroom door.

The bed had been modified.

Viktor had noticed this weeks ago and had not commented on it because commenting on it would have required acknowledging that he’d noticed, and acknowledging that he’d noticed would have opened a conversation about ’why’ it had been modified that he’d preferred to avoid at the time. The mattress had been elevated on a new wooden frame — Helena’s carpentry, precise and quietly done — and the headboard had been replaced with one that had carved handholds built into it, smooth and deliberate, at exactly the height where a woman kneeling over someone’s face would need them.

Viktor looked at the headboard.

He looked at Helena.

She was already arranging pillows with the focused competence of a woman who had been managing a household for nineteen years and found the management of this particular configuration to be simply another domestic organization problem.

“You planned this,” Viktor said.

“We discussed it,” Helena said, which was not a denial.

“When.”

“This afternoon.” Mira was already at the edge of the bed, her dress arranged around her enormous belly, looking at him with the expression of someone who had made the decision and was not going to un-make it. “While you were in the garden doing your chores.”

Viktor looked at the ceiling.

“Sit,” Mira said.

He sat.

Mira turned.

She stood at the edge of the bed with her back to him, her dress lifted to the hips, the specific wide curve of her ass at eye level — the full generous weight of it, the pregnancy having rounded everything generously, the soft pale skin of her. Her panties came down in the practical motion of a woman removing an obstacle, stepped out of, set aside.

She looked back over her shoulder.

The heart-shapes in her eyes were soft and warm and fully committed.

She lowered herself.

Slow.

His cock had been dealt with — Mira’s hands, efficient and proprietary, had handled the undressing with the focused speed of someone who had done this enough times to have found the most efficient path — and now it stood, and she reached back, and the slick blunt head of him found her ass.

She pressed.

“Nngh~—”

The first push. Her ring resisting, the initial protest of a body that had not been asked to do this in some time, the tight heat of her closing around just the head and then holding, and Mira’s jaw set with the expression of someone applying patience to a situation that required it.

“You’ve become too tight,” Viktor said.

“Thank you,” Mira said, through her teeth.

“That’s not a compliment.”

“I know what it is.” Another slow push downward. Another inch. Her hands braced on his knees, her belly hanging forward, the full round dome of it swaying gently with the motion, and she exhaled in the specific sharp way of someone managing something that required active management. “It’s been — weeks — since you — mngh—”

“You haven’t been fucked in the ass,” Viktor said. “It tightened back up.”

“Yes, I gathered that,” she said, very precisely.

PAH — no, not yet. Just the slow descent. Her ring accepting him by millimeters, the grip of her extraordinary even at this stage, the heat of her surrounding just the first half of him while she breathed through the rest.

She trembled.

Her belly jiggled with the tremor — the full round swell of it moving with the specific motion of something carrying significant weight — and the tight press of her ass around him sent a pulse up his spine that had nothing ’academic’ about it.

“Hhh~—” Not pain. The other thing. The thing that lived on the same frequency as pain but arrived from the opposite direction.

Her ring opened another centimeter.

And another.

Viktor’s hands found her hips.

Spread across the wide curve of them, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of her ass from behind, the grip not tight — supportive, the same quality as his hands under her belly in the garden. Then he lifted.

Just an inch.

And brought her back down.

“NGH~!!”

Her whole body shuddered. The belly swayed forward. Her breasts, which were pressing against the underside of her arms as she held herself braced on his knees, jiggled with the motion, milk beading at both nipples through the thin fabric of the dress she still half-wore.

He lifted her again.

Down.

“HNGH~!! Oungh~!!”

The rhythm established itself — not fast, not aggressive, the patient unhurried pace of someone working with the specific logistics of a pregnant woman’s body, lifting her the amount her current center of gravity allowed and lowering her with the full gravity-assisted descent.

Her pussy clenched.

He could feel it even without touching it — the involuntary external clenching of her lower body with each downward push, her thighs tightening, the slick warmth of her becoming apparent against the insides of her own thighs.

Helena had been watching.

She stood at the side of the bed with both hands under her belly and her lower lip pressed between her teeth in the specific expression of someone who has been waiting their turn and is running out of wait. Her dress was already unlaced at the back — she’d done it herself, the practical unpinning of a woman who had been planning this since the garden.

Viktor looked at her.

He lay back.

Helena climbed onto the bed.

The weight of her — the late pregnancy weight of a woman with breasts like Helena’s and a belly like Helena’s — settled onto the mattress with the particular careful deliberateness of someone navigating significant geometry. She moved forward. Her knees went on either side of his head.

She lowered herself.

Her pussy — warm, already slick with the patient wanting that had been building all afternoon — met his mouth.

Viktor’s hands found her thighs.

Pulled her down.

“OH—” Helena’s sound was immediate, the sharp intake of someone whose lower body had just registered something very specific. Her hands found the carved handholds in the headboard. Gripped. Her belly hung forward between her arms, enormous and warm and swaying with the tremor in her thighs.

He worked.

His tongue, his lips, the particular knowledge he had of her after months of this exact position — Helena’s specific sensitivity, what made her thighs go rigid versus what made them shake, the difference between the sound she made when she was climbing and the sound she made when she was arriving.

“Oungh~!! Hah~!! Young master—”

Above him and in front of him: two pregnant women, each facing away from the other, each holding their bellies with one hand and a support with the other, his cock buried in Mira’s ass and his mouth buried in Helena’s pussy, and the specific choreography of this arrangement working exactly the way Mira had calculated it would.

PAH. PAH.

His hands on Mira’s hips, lifting and lowering, the pace building as her ring had finally softened to acceptance and stopped resisting and started — doing the other thing. The thing where ’accepting’ becomes ’wanting’ and the difference is audible.

“Oungh~!! HNGH~!! Hah~!!” Mira’s voice above him, broken at the edges, her belly swaying with each descent, her milk-wet nipples dragging against her forearms.

“Mnn~!! Hah~!! Don’t stop—” Helena, from her side, her thighs closing warm around his face, her hips starting to move in the small involuntary rocking motion that meant her body had taken over from her intention.

Viktor pulled Helena’s ass closer.

Both hands. The full wide weight of her ass in his palms, pulling her onto him, his tongue pressing deeper, and Helena made a sound that was not words.

Her chest tightened.

It happened the way it had been happening more frequently in the last week — the specific pressure of milk production overtaking capacity, the dense fullness of breasts that were ’full,’ beyond full, the nipples aching with the pressure of it.

Helena halted.

Her thighs went still. Her hands gripped the headboard. She leaned forward over him, looking down, and said:

“Please—” Her voice came out smaller than she intended. “Young master — please — suck these off, I—”

Viktor looked up.

He saw: Helena’s face, flushed, eyes half-closed, her expression the specific mix of arousal and the other thing — the physical pressure of milk that had been accumulating. And above her face, hanging forward as she leaned over him—

Her breasts.

Both of them. Heavy, full, the inch-long dark nipples already leaking — not dripping, ’leaking,’ a continuous thin trickle from each that traced lines down the curve of the underside and dripped onto his chest.

She positioned herself.

Both breasts, hanging forward over his face, the weight of them swaying as she moved, her belly resting against his sternum from above.

Viktor reached up.

Both hands. He gathered her breasts together — the specific deliberate press of gathering two things that were trying to fall separate — and brought both nipples to his mouth simultaneously.

He ’sucked.’

Helena’s voice broke.

Not a word. Not a moan exactly. The specific sound of a relief that starts in the chest and exits through the throat without asking permission — the release-sound, the sound of pressure finding its exit.

Milk ’came.’

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