Chapter 124: Chapter 124 – Death of a Cuckolded Politician

The pace established itself. Not slow anymore. His hands on her hips directed each thrust with a precision that was almost mechanical — pulling her back as he drove forward, the collision of his hips against her ass producing a sound that rolled across the pool deck.

Her breasts swung beneath her. Soft and heavy, swaying forward with each thrust and back, the nipples dragging against the cushion fabric, the friction making her cry out between every other sound.

Veronica made a sound from the lounger.

Low, private.

Her fingers worked between her thighs and her eyes were wide and fixed on Raven’s back, on the flex of muscle with each thrust, on the specific and familiar shape of him that she had learned thoroughly enough to feel it in her own body just from watching.

The mark at her collarbone pulsed. Warm.

PAH. PAH. PAH. PAAH.

“’HNGH~!! AAHH~!!♡ I’M — I’M GOING TO—’”

“’Now,’” Raven said.

Marga’s orgasm hit like a car crash. Everything at once — her body seized, her thighs pressing together hard enough to bruise, her ass clenching around his cock in a grip that made him push deeper almost involuntarily, her voice producing a sustained note that frightened birds off the decorative trees.

“’AAAAAHHH~!!♡♡♡’”

Fluid ran down her inner thighs. Her elbows gave. Her face hit the cushion.

From the lounger, Veronica made her own sound. Small. Bitten back. Her hand pressed flat against herself. Her back arching once, briefly, the evidence of it quiet and private and her own.

Raven pulled out.

He turned.

His cock — wet, heavy, still entirely present as a fact — swung slightly as he crossed the few feet to where Veronica sat. She was already uncrossing her legs. Already making room.

He settled his weight between her thighs.

Their eyes met.

“’That took longer than expected,’” Veronica said.

“’She was tight.’”

“’I noticed.’”

His cock pressed against her entrance — her pussy, which knew him now, which had learned the shape of him in the ways she’d catalogued with the same precision she brought to everything — and she tilted her hips up without being asked.

He sank in.

Not slow. Not dramatic. Just — home.

“’Haaah~—’”

Her back curved. Her hands found his shoulders.

PAH.

The first thrust.

“’HNGH~!!♡’”

PAH. PAH.

“’AAAHH~!! AH~!!’”

Alexander’s eyes were open.

He was watching.

That was the last thing — the eyes open, the brain still running its last few minutes of awareness, the sight of his wife on a lounger at his pool with her body curved around a man who wasn’t him, making sounds he’d never once in twelve years heard her make.

Her breasts bounced with each thrust. Her hair was spread across the cushion. Her thighs were wrapped around Raven’s waist and her hands were in his hair.

“’PAAH~!!’”

“’AAAAAHHH~!!♡♡’”

“’More—’”

That was the last word Alexander heard her say.

’More.’

His hand on the tile stopped moving.

His eyes stayed open.

Somewhere across the pool deck, Marga lay with her cheek against the cushion, catching her breath, the mark pulsing at her neck with a red warmth that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun.

The pool water caught the light and threw it back in that too-vivid, deliberate blue.

And Veronica came on Raven’s cock — silently, completely, her body arching in a single long wave — on the lounger her husband had bought, in the garden her husband had built, while her husband’s eyes stared at the marble sky of his last moment.

He didn’t have the breath left for what he wanted to say.

He died with a bastard’s name on his tongue and no air to speak it.

“Ba… astr… ad”

—

The afternoon had gone quiet in the way that only happens after something enormous — that specific, ringing silence where the world is processing what just occurred and hasn’t decided how to respond yet.

The pool still caught the light. Same blue. Same marble. Same expensive geometry.

Alexander was still on the tile.

His eyes had stopped moving.

Raven was seated on the edge of the lounger.

Not collapsed. Not tired. Just — settled, the way a man sits when he’s decided the urgency has passed and he can take his time with what comes next. His elbows rested on his knees. His trousers were gone at some point — the when of it unimportant. His cock hung between his legs with the same casual, undeniable presence it always had, half-hard, still warm from Veronica.

Veronica knelt on his left.

Marga knelt on his right.

Nobody had asked them to. The positions had just — resolved, the way things resolve around him, like water finding the lowest point.

Veronica moved first. Her red hair fell over one shoulder as she tilted her head, her lips finding the side of his shaft — not hungry, not performing, just thorough. She dragged her tongue in a slow, upward pull from the base, her cheek pressing against the warmth of him. Her breasts hung with the motion, heavy and soft, the nipples brushing the edge of the lounger as she leaned in. Her lips parted. She took one of his balls into her mouth with the easy, practiced devotion of a woman who had stopped pretending she didn’t want this.

’”Mmmh—”’

Marga watched her.

Then, slowly, Marga leaned in from the other side.

Her tongue found the head. Flat. Tentative. The taste of him hit her first — salt, musk, the accumulated warmth of the afternoon — and she felt something in her chest she didn’t have a name for. Not arousal exactly. Not submission. Something in between, something she’d been circling since Veronica had walked out of thin air and turned a man’s arm to ash.

She licked again.

Less tentative.

’”Mmmnh—”’

Raven’s hand moved. Found Veronica’s hair, ruffled it — the gesture of a man who has a cat and is fond of it. Then the same hand found Marga’s hair. The same casual, warm ruffling. Like they were both just — his. Comfortable facts.

Marga’s eyes closed for a moment.

She hadn’t expected the warmth of that.

“’How did she get the power?’”

Veronica pulled back slightly. Her lips were wet. Her eyes moved up to his face with the direct attention she gave things she’d decided mattered.

“’The fire.’” She pressed her lips to the side of his shaft. “’The teleportation. The mark.’” A pause. “’My bloodline.’” Another press of her lips, lower. “’Where did it come from?’”

Raven’s fingers moved through her hair. Slow.

“’I’ll tell you,’” he said.

“’When?’”

“’Later.’”

She made a sound against him that was half protest.

His thumb pressed against the back of her head. Gently. Directing.

“’Focus,’” he said.

She focused.

Her mouth opened and she took his cock properly — not the teasing side-licks but the full, wet seal of her lips around the head, her tongue pressing flat beneath it, her throat accepting the first inches with the ease of a woman who had been doing this long enough that her body no longer required convincing.

’”Mmmhh—”’

Marga watched the side of Veronica’s throat work.

Watched the small, rhythmic bob of her head. Watched the way her breasts swayed slightly with the motion, the nipples hardened by the cooler air.

’She doesn’t even look like she’s performing’, Marga thought. ’She looks like she’s having a private meal.’

Marga’s tongue found his balls.

She cupped them first — the weight of them, warm and full and heavy in her palms — and pressed her lips against the skin. Soft. Exploratory.

She felt him respond — a slight tension in his thigh beside her, the cock in Veronica’s mouth hardening another fraction.

’He felt that’, she noted. ’Filing it.’

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