He stepped closer to the bed.

His cock moved.

The swing of it — the casual, gravity-obeying arc of the thing as he shifted his weight — brought it level with her chest.

She watched it.

He watched her watching it.

Then he swung.

The slap landed on her left breast.

The flat, heavy, warm ’thwap’ of his cock against the full, soft mound of her — the impact making her breast flatten and ’jiggle,’ the bounce carrying her flesh sideways and back, the whole soft weight of it responding to the impact with the complete, unhurried honesty of substantial mass following physical law.

She gasped.

Her mouth wide open. Her eyes wider.

The specific, absolute shock of a woman who has just experienced something that has never once occurred to her as a thing that could happen.

"Wh—"

He did it again.

The other breast this time. The same flat, deliberate swing. The same ’thwap.’ The same jiggle, the same bounce, her breast reddening slightly at the point of contact, the nipple hardening further as if confused about whether to be offended.

"WHAT ARE YOU—"

She couldn’t even complete it.

The words dissolved into the specific, stuttering silence of a woman whose vocabulary has temporarily failed her because nothing in her life up to this point had included ’being slapped by a man’s cock’ as a scenario requiring prepared language.

She stared at the ceiling.

Her breast, warm and slightly red, settling back into its natural position.

She blinked.

"He hit me," she said.

To the ceiling.

"With his—"

"Focus," Viktor said.

He moved down.

His hand found the displaced panty fabric — the cotton, still clinging by one tied string at the remaining hip — and pulled it away completely.

The last barrier gone.

Her pussy was covered by the thick, dark hair — the full, natural, unpretentious coverage of a woman who had not been expecting this examination — the hair pressing down over the top of her labia in the dense, soft curtain of it.

She tried to close her legs.

Her ankles hit the belt binding.

Found the limit.

Her legs opened back to where they’d been, the involuntary spread, the full exposure of her that her body had been doing against her explicit instructions for the past twenty minutes.

"No," she said again. The word had become her only available word. "I’m only letting my husband— when he comes back— I only— please—"

"Your husband isn’t here," Viktor said.

She bit her lip.

He looked at her.

"He won’t know." His voice — not cruel, not cold. The flat, patient voice of a man who is also, below the incubus and below the ruthlessness, making a very specific kind of argument. "Think about it. You’re a woman alone. The moment I leave this city, there will be another man like the one in the shop. Then another. And they won’t make medicine for your son first."

She looked at him.

At the purple eyes.

At the cock still present and enormous in her peripheral vision.

"You would at least," he continued, "be with someone worth it."

The word ’worth’ landed somewhere complicated.

Her eyes watered.

Her body — the liquid warmth still dripping from between her thighs, the specific, honest, ’humiliating’ evidence of everything her body had decided in the past forty minutes — was making its own argument, separate from and considerably louder than anything her mind was managing.

She looked at the ceiling.

She looked at him.

She looked at the ceiling again.

The wet trail down her inner thigh caught the candlelight.

Her dark hair, damp.

Her boob, red from the suction and redder from the cock-slap, the nipple standing at complete, traitorous attention.

"Fine," she said.

The word came out like something she was setting down rather than something she was choosing.

"Fine."

He put both thumbs at the top of her labia.

Over the hair. His thumbs pressing into the soft, full flesh on either side — the puffy, thick outer lips — and ’massaging.’

She cried out.

Not in pain — in the specific, sharp, involuntary way of someone receiving stimulation at exactly the wrong place at exactly the right moment, her hips rolling forward into his hands, her whole pelvis seeking the pressure and hating herself for it.

"Hn~— nnn~— don’t—"

He pushed the hair aside.

Both thumbs, spreading outward, parting the thick dark coverage and revealing what it had been keeping.

He looked.

Pink.

Against the dark hair, against the flushed, warm skin of her inner thighs — pink, and puffy, and ’closed,’ the tight, neat press of labia that had been faithfully waiting out the years of an absent and then missing husband with the patient, uncomplaining fidelity of a body that had not been given options.

The gap visible between them — the faint, glistening evidence of the wet that had been building since before she’d understood what was building.

He looked at it.

At the specific, honest, ’tight’ reality of it.

"Brown nipples," he said. "Pink pussy."

He looked at her face.

"You really had assets hiding."

She had her face turned away.

The specific, pressed-chin angle of a woman who is deeply embarrassed and has decided that if she cannot see him, she is not entirely present.

"Don’t say things like—"

He placed his cockhead against her entrance.

The full, blunt, warm weight of the tip pressing against the tight, pink, wet opening of her — the specific, immediate, overwhelming contact of two things meeting that have very different ideas about what comes next.

She stopped breathing.

’He is not going to fit,’ she thought.

’He is genuinely, physically, not going to fit.’

’I have a child. I know the dimensions of things that fit through there. This is not that size. This is a different size. This is a size that belongs to a different category of things that go—’

He pressed.

"Ah,"

Viktor said.

The cockhead entered.

Just the tip. The specific, stretching, ’full’ sensation of the very first inch — her entrance spreading around the width of his cockhead with the slow, definitive stretch of something that had not been asked to accommodate this before and was now being asked to accommodate this.

Her back left the bed.

The arch was not controlled. Not voluntary. It was the specific, full-body seismic response of a nervous system receiving information from below the waist and sending an emergency reply in the form of ’upward.’

"AAANGHH~—"

He lay over her.

His body coming down — the warm, full weight of him, his chest against her breasts, his arms coming under her back, wrapping around her in the specific, comprehensive embrace of a man who has committed to a position and is now making himself comfortable in it.

Her breasts compressed under his chest.

Both of them — the full, soft, thick press of her against his pectoral muscles, the nipples catching against his skin, the warm, substantial weight of her sandwiched between them.

He went in.

The rest of it.

Not slow.

Not fast.

The steady, ’definitive’ drive of a man going all the way in because stopping was never the plan — the inch by inch by inch of nine inches finding a pussy that had not been measured for nine inches and was revising itself around them in real time, the stretch running from the entrance inward, deeper, the walls of her spreading apart with the thick, inexorable push of his cock finding the parts of her that had never been reached.

Her womb.

His cockhead pressed against the deepest wall of her.

She felt it.

In her stomach. In her throat. In the backs of her eyes.

The specific, overwhelming, entirely unprecedented sensation of being ’full’ in a place she had not known could feel full — the pressure against her cervix, the push of his cockhead against the end of her, the walls of her pussy gripping around him in the tight, comprehensive, ’complete’ embrace of something that had never been this stretched and was now stretched all the way.

"AAAAHHHH~!!"