Chapter 510: Chapter 510- Was it a coincidence for him to sleep with a lesbian?

The scream did not stop at the first note.

It climbed.

It climbed past the first note and past the second and kept going — the raw, cracking, full-throated output of a body that had been suspended inside a temporal field for an hour while everything was done to it and was now receiving every single thing simultaneously, all at once, the full unbuffered return of sensation that the magic had been compressing.

"HIEEEKK~~~ ANGHHHHH~~!!!?!!"

Her whole body seized.

Not a tremble. Not a shudder. A full, violent, total-system lock — her spine arching backward off the dustbin lid so hard the metal rang, her thighs slamming together, her toes curling inside the trousers bunched at her feet until the fabric strained, her hands slamming flat against the cold metal on either side of her hips with the impact of fists.

Her pussy electrocuted her.

That was the only word for what the body does when an hour of stimulation returns to it all at once — not a gradual awareness, not a slow realization, but the complete, instantaneous, nerve-by-nerve detonation of every sensation that had been filed away in the temporal suspension. His cock entering her. The hymen. The blood. The positions — every position, every angle, the koala grip, the mating press, the dustbin, the half hour of his hips against her ass — all of it arriving back in her body in the same instant that his fingers snapped.

Her cunt contracted.

Hard, rhythmic, helpless — the walls slamming together in pulses that were not one orgasm but the compression of an hour of orgasms released simultaneously, the full catalogue of everything her body had been building toward discharging through her in one long, catastrophic wave.

Her pussy squirted.

The fluid hit the dustbin lid and the alleyway stones in a hot, transparent spray — not a trickle, not a drip, but a genuine gush of pussy juice and residual blood, the well-fucked cunt releasing its hour of accumulated output in one convulsive pour.

Her thighs were soaked instantly.

The stones beneath her darkened.

Her body twitched.

The kind of twitch that moves the whole body — her hips jerking upward, her shoulders slamming back, her head snapping to one side, every muscle group firing independently in the chaotic sequence of a nervous system that has received more than it knows how to route.

"AAANGH~!! NGHH~!! HAAANGH~!!!"

Her voice came back to her between the spasms.

Cracked. Hoarse from an hour of compressed, muffled sounds. The first full-volume sounds that had come from her throat in sixty minutes tearing through vocal cords that were not prepared for full deployment.

"KYAAANGH~!!! NNGH~!! AAAAANGH~!!!"

He stood over her.

Watching.

His arms crossed. His cock still out, still hanging heavy and glistening in the dim alleyway light — the crimson length of it patient, because patience is easy when you are not the one currently experiencing a retroactive hour of deflowering all at once.

He watched her twitch through thirty seconds of this.

He watched the squirt soak the stones.

He watched her body try to process itself.

Then her eyes opened.

Not gently. Not the slow, soft surfacing of a woman waking from something. Her eyes opened the way a door opens when something is behind it pressing outward — fast and wide and with the particular focus of a woman who has just received a full set of memories that she did not know she had.

She looked at the alleyway ceiling.

She looked at the dustbin beneath her.

She looked at her trousers at mid-thigh and the seed on her inner thighs and the blood and the squirt on the stones and the marks on her hips.

Her breathing was not breathing. It was the rapid, shallow, borderline-hyperventilation of a woman doing a very fast accounting of everything her body was reporting.

Her eyes found him.

He met her gaze pleasantly.

Her face went through several things in sequence.

Confusion — fast. Recognition — faster. Understanding — the worst of them, the one that hit her like a wall, the moment where the body’s memories and the mind’s processing aligned and produced a complete picture.

And then rage.

The kind of rage that does not arrive loudly. The kind that starts cold and specific, in the chest, and moves upward into the face and produces an expression that is much more frightening than a scream.

"You—"

Her voice came out as a whisper.

Her whole body was still twitching. Still producing the aftershocks of the retroactive release, her hips still jerking in small involuntary intervals, her cunt still dripping onto the stones. Her body was having one experience and her mind had just arrived at another and the gap between them was producing something combustible.

"You—!!"

Louder.

Her hands found the dustbin and pushed. Her arms shook — the muscle fatigue of a body that had been completely used for an hour made the push unsteady, the metal scraping — but she pushed and she got one knee under herself and then the other and she stood, trembling hard enough that the rise looked like it might not succeed.

It succeeded.

She stood.

Her small tits bare, the open shirt hanging around them. Her trousers still at mid-thigh, the seed visible on her inner thighs. Her hair loose and wrecked around her face. Her legs shaking.

She pointed at him.

"I WILL KILL YOU."

Her voice had its full volume back now, the hoarseness irrelevant to the force of it, the words coming out with the particular quality of a woman who means them — not emotionally, not in the way people say it in moments of frustration, but with the cold and calibrated certainty of someone who has killed before and is currently evaluating the logistics.

"You do not know—" Her finger shook. Her body was still twitching. Her hips jerked once, involuntarily, and she ignored it entirely. "You do NOT know whose hands you have laid yours on—"

PAH.

Her body betrayed her.

One final aftershock — her cunt clenching hard, her knees buckling, her hand catching the wall of the alley for support, the involuntary moan leaving her mouth before she could close it.

"NNGH—!!"

She closed her mouth.

She straightened.

She looked at him with the expression of a woman pretending the last two seconds did not happen.

"I am the soon-to-be-fiancée," she said, her voice returning to the cold and controlled register, "of Prince Goliath."

Raven’s expression did not change.

"I was here on a mission." Her chin came up. "A mission of significant importance to the crown. And you—" The words came out clipped, precise, each one landing like something measured. "You dared to defile my body. You dared to lay your hands on a woman promised to the Prince of this—"

"I know," he said.

She stopped.

The word landed in the middle of her sentence and sat there.

He was looking at her the way he had been looking at her since she first processed her situation — the pleasant, unhurried attention of a demon who has already sorted the information and is watching someone else arrive at conclusions he reached some time ago.

The smirk had gone.

Not into anger. Not into anything that could be read as threat or alarm. It had simply quieted — the way the surface of deep water quiets, not because nothing is below it but because nothing that is below it is concerned with surface appearances.

He looked at her.

"Do you think," he said, calmly, "that I would simply walk up to any random lesbian and spend an hour clapping her?"