Chapter 257: Chapter 257 – A Wife’s Sacrifice for Her Husband

She felt it.

The back of her thighs. His hips pressed against the backs of her thighs in the standing position, his cock — still present, still the committed, upright fact of it — pressed against the back of her.

“’No,’” she said. The word of someone who meant it. “’No. Not here. He’s right here. I can’t— in front of—’”

“’You want to leave,’” he said.

The quiet, level quality of it.

“’Yes—’”

“’Clean me up first.’”

She processed this.

“’…what?’”

“’Either,’” he said, and the tone was completely matter-of-fact, the tone of someone presenting a binary choice, “’I clean myself inside your pussy. Or you clean me yourself.’”

She looked at her husband.

At Vikram’s face, unconscious, tilted slightly toward her, the dry tear-tracks on his cheeks.

She looked at that face.

“’You—’” Her voice. The furious, tearful, completely outmatched quality of it. “’You can’t— you—’”

“’Choose.’”

“’RAVEN—’”

He pushed.

The blunt, committed, forward push of his cockhead against her entrance — the stretched, swollen, post-everything entrance of her — and the immediate, comprehensive, full-body sound she made as it began to enter.

“’AAHHNG—!!♡’”

Her boobs.

Both of them, simultaneously, released.

Not a drip. The jet — the full, twin-jet release of both breasts in the single reflex of her body receiving his entry. The milk arcing forward and downward.

Landing on Vikram.

On his chest. On his arms. The thin, warm, white spray of it landing on her unconscious husband’s body while she was above him, while her husband was on the floor below her, while the man behind her pushed forward and seated himself inside her with the specific, total, fully-committed seating of someone who had been here many times and knew the address.

She looked at the milk on Vikram’s chest.

The thin, white, spreading stain of it on his hospital gown.

Her milk.

On her husband.

“’Oh—’” The sound came out small. The specific sound of someone receiving confirmation of something. “’Oh god—’”

’PAH.’

“’HHNG—!!♡’”

Her hand went to the floor beside Vikram’s shoulder. The instinctive, weight-catching, going-forward quality of it — her body leaning forward with the impact, her free hand planting on the linoleum beside her husband to catch her weight.

Her face.

Six inches above his face.

Vikram’s unconscious face directly below her as Raven began to move behind her.

’PAH. PAH.’

“’Ngh—!! Mm—!! Hhng—!!’”

“’He’s right here,’” she said. Not to Raven. To herself. The desperate, witnessing quality of it. “’He’s right here, he’s right here, I can’t—’”

’PAH.’

“’OHHH—!!♡’”

Her other hand found the floor on the other side of Vikram — both her hands now planted on either side of her husband’s body, her arms bracketing him, her belly hanging forward above his chest, her face above his face.

Her tears.

Falling directly down.

The specific, gravity-driven quality of tears falling from a face that was above another face — landing on Vikram’s cheeks, on his closed eyes, on the side of his jaw. Her tears, on her husband’s face.

“’Vikram—’” She said his name. Not to wake him. The automatic quality of it — the name-as-anchor, the way you say a name when you are in freefall and the name is the only solid thing.

’PAH. PAH. PAH.’

“’AAHHNG~!! Hngh~!! OUNGH~!!♡♡’”

“’Your husband is here,’” Raven said.

Behind her. Conversational. The voice of a man noting something.

“’I know—’” She said it through her moans. “’I know he is— I know— please— Raven— please—’”

“’And your body is doing that.’”

She knew what he meant.

She knew because she could feel what her body was doing — the specific, involuntary, advancing quality of it, the hips that were pressing backward to meet each thrust in the committed way of something that had established a preference and was following it even now. Even here. Even with her tears falling on her husband’s face.

“’Stop— stop doing that—’” She said it to her own hips.

’PAH. PAH.’

“’MMNH~!! AAHN~!!♡’”

Her face fell.

The neck-giving-out quality of it — her forehead dropping to rest on Vikram’s chest. The full, defeated, forehead-to-chest drop of a woman who had run out of the ability to hold her head up.

Her forehead on her husband’s chest.

Her body, above him, receiving things.

Her tears running into his hospital gown.

“’It’s not my fault,’” she said. Into his chest. The muffled, desperate quality of it. The voice of someone making a case to someone who could not hear it. “’I didn’t— I didn’t know you were— I never wanted you to— Vikram— I’m sorry— I’m sorry, I’m sorry—’”

’PAH. PAH. PAH.’

“’AAANNGH~!!♡♡ HIEKK~!! AHN— AHN— AHN—’”

Her milk — every PAH, a release. The reflex-jet of it from both breasts with each impact, the warm spray of it landing in a continuous, widening pool on Vikram’s chest and arms and stomach. Soaking into his gown. The warm, expanding wet of it.

Her face, against his chest.

“’I love you,’” she said. Into his hospital gown. Into the spreading wet of her own milk on his chest. “’I love you, I love you, I’m— Vikram—’”

’PAAAH.’

“’AAAHH~!!♡♡♡’”

Half an hour.

The specific duration of thirty minutes measured in sounds and impacts and the continuous production of milk and the continuous drip of her tears on her husband and the specific, comprehensive, incremental destruction of what her body had been before last night.

Her arms shook.

They had been shaking for ten minutes.

The wide-planted, floor-braced, weight-bearing shaking of arms that had held a pregnant woman’s weight above a floor for ten minutes past their capacity.

Her pussy.

The state of it — the post-six-hours, post-every-position, post-this-position state of it. The word ’loose’ arrived in her own mind with a quality that she did not have language to process. Not loose the way that word meant. Loose the way a thing means when it has been exactly what it was built for at a level that exceeded all prior experience by a factor that had not yet been named.

She felt every thrust at a distance.

Not the sharp, immediate, present-second sensitivity of two hours ago. The distant, deep, ringing quality of something that was happening to the inside of her and arriving at her consciousness as an echo.

’Too much,’ she thought. ’Too much. I can’t feel it anymore. No, I can still feel it. No— it’s different—’

Raven’s hands shifted.

She felt his cock leaving her pussy.

The withdrawal — the long, wet, fully-committed withdrawal — and then the specific, targeted reorientation of his hips. The placement of his cockhead against the other entrance. The one that had been claimed this morning. The one that was still — the warmth still there, the warmth he had left there earlier still present in the interior walls.

“’WAIT—’” She lifted her head. “’Wait— not— you already— in the morning you already—’”

“’Your pussy,’” he said, behind her, calmly, “’is too loose.’”

The flat, informational delivery of it.

She stared at her husband’s face below hers.

At the tear-tracks she had put on his cheeks.

At the milk she had put on his chest.

“’AAANNGGH~!!!’”

The re-entry.

The full, committed, single-push re-entry into the location that had been used this morning and was now, the second time in the same day, receiving him. The immediate, total, full-seated entry of it — not the slow millimeter-by-millimeter of the first time. The second time had the knowledge the first time had provided.

Her back.

The full arch of it. The spine curving into the full reverse-C, both shoulders pulling back, her head dropping back, her belly swinging forward.

“’HIEKK—!! AAAHN—!! NNH—NNH—NNH—’”

’PAH. PAH. PAH.’

“’AANNGH~!!♡♡ OUNGH~!! HHHNG~!!’”

Her voice filled the room.

The hospital room — the floor, the curtains, the tile of the bathroom visible through the open door, the linoleum where Vikram lay — all of it filled with the sound of her. Not the managed, attempted-quiet sounds of the night before. The full, unmanaged, no-longer-trying sound of a woman who was past the point of trying.

’PAH. PAH.’

“’AAAHH~!!♡ RAVEN— NNH— RAVEN—’”

Her arms gave.

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