A muffled sound leaked from her sealed lips.

Kiran was describing his other friend now. A girl named Sanna who could climb trees faster than any boy and who had once thrown a pinecone at the teacher’s head by accident and cried so hard about it that the teacher cried too.

"She sounds formidable," Raven said.

He kneaded Surbhi’s tit in a slow, rolling motion. The flesh spilled between his fingers. He released and gripped again. Released. Gripped. The nipple was a point of fire under the cotton blouse. She was leaking. She could feel the front of her smallclothes going damp. The seed and her own arousal mixing.

She stared at her bowl with the focused intensity of a woman trying not to moan at the breakfast table.

"Sanna also once ate a bee," Kiran continued. "Not on purpose that time. It was in her cup. She said it stung her tongue and she tasted like flowers for a whole day." He considered this. "I think that would be nice actually. To taste like flowers."

"Your mother knows about flowers," Raven said pleasantly.

Surbhi made a strangled noise.

Kiran looked at her.

"Mother you keep making noises. Are you sure you are alright?"

"I am fine." She picked up her spoon. She held it. She did not use it. "I am just— the steam— from the soup—"

Raven squeezed her tit hard.

"Mmph—!"

"She is just hungry," Raven said. He looked at Kiran. "Which brings me to notice that I have not served your mother. That is very rude of a guest." He tilted his head. "My bad."

His other hand appeared on her other tit.

Both hands. Under her blouse. Both heavy breasts in his grip. He kneaded them simultaneously. He pushed them together. He pulled the nipples outward. Her whole body convulsed. Her feet pressed flat against the floor. Her toes curled in her sandals.

"Anh—" She pressed her lips together. The sound died in her throat.

"Mother," Kiran said, peering at her face. "You are very red."

"I am warm." She was sweating. "The room is warm."

"It is not warm. I am cold actually." He looked at Raven. "Are you warm, uncle?"

"Perfectly comfortable," Raven said. He pinched both nipples at the same time.

Surbhi’s eyes rolled.

Her face went slack for one single second — the blank, tongue-at-lip expression of a woman whose brain had just been unplugged by a direct nipple assault. She caught herself. She snapped her mouth shut. She grabbed her spoon and scooped a mouthful of soup and put it in her mouth with the determination of a soldier.

"Uncle," Kiran said. "Why are you sitting so close to my mother?"

"She was cold."

"She just said she was warm."

"Women are often both."

Kiran considered this with the philosophical gravity of a seven-year-old. "My teacher Brynn is also always both. She fans herself and then puts on her shawl." He nodded. "I think it is a mother thing."

He finished his bread.

He sat back. He pressed his small hands against his belly. His brow furrowed.

"Uncle," he announced. "I need to poop."

Surbhi closed her eyes.

Raven looked at the boy. "Then go."

Kiran slid from his chair. He trotted toward the privy at the back of the apartment. The sound of his small feet was clear. The door clicked shut.

Silence.

Raven’s hands stilled on her tits. Then one moved lower. Down her belly. Down to her skirt.

"My God," he said. "Mother and son both poop a lot."

Surbhi’s face went from crimson to volcanic.

"Please," she whispered. "Please do not talk like this, sir. My son is—"

"Your son is pooping," he said. "He cannot hear you." His hand found the hem of her skirt. "And you are leaking through your clothes. I can feel it on my trousers. You are soaking me."

"Please— I cannot—" She grabbed his wrist under the skirt. "Not here— not at the table— Kiran will come back—"

"You are so filthy," he said warmly. He picked up a spoon with his free hand. He scooped a mouthful of bean stew. He held it up. "Open."

She stared at the spoon. "I said I already—"

He turned her face with two fingers against her jaw. He kissed her.

His mouth covered hers. His tongue pushed inside. The food transferred from his mouth to hers — warm, seasoned, direct. A French kiss with bean stew. His tongue chased the food into her throat. She swallowed involuntarily. His hand kneaded her tit. His tongue explored her mouth. The taste of the food and the taste of him mixed.

Her eyes rolled.

He separated.

She gasped. A thin string of saliva connected their lips for a moment. It broke. She blinked. Her eyes were glassy. Her mouth was full of his taste.

"Please," she whispered. "I have already eaten. I—"

He stood.

He lifted her with him. His hand gripped her hip. He bent her forward. Her belly hit the edge of the table. The bowls shifted. The spoon rattled. Her hands flew out to catch herself.

"Eat the food," he said. His voice was warm against the back of her neck. "While I make sure to pump energy directly into your belly."

"My lord— not here— Kiran is just—"

His hands found the back of her skirt.

He lifted it.

The brown fabric rode up over her thick ass. The white smallclothes were visible. The cotton was damp. The outline of her seed-wet pussy was visible through the fabric. He hooked his fingers into the waistband. He pulled upward. The cotton rode into the crack of her ass. The panty pulled tight between her pussy lips. She gasped. She went up on her tiptoes from the pressure. Her heels lifted off the floor.

He pulled the fabric aside.

Her pussy was exposed. Swollen. Leaking. The entrance was stretched and sore and still beautiful. A thick, white glob of old seed was visible at the opening.

He pressed his cock against the entrance through his trousers.

He was already undone. He was already hard. The head found her entrance with the ease of a man who knew exactly where he was going.

"By the way," he said, his voice completely casual. "I will come in a few days to take you away."

"Wh—" She gripped the table. "Take me— where—"

He slammed.

PHAAAAACK—

The full twelve inches drove into her in a single, brutal thrust. Her body slid forward on the table. The bowls jumped. The spoon fell. Her face slammed into the surface of the table and she caught herself with her forearms. Her head lolled. Her tongue came out. Her eyes were wide and then they were not wide because they were rolling backward.

And then the irises rolled forward again.

And they were shaped like hearts.

Two perfect, dark, heart-shaped pupils looking at the surface of the table while twelve inches of demon cock sat in her womb and her brain tried to remember what day it was. Her tits swayed inside the blouse. The fabric strained. The buttons pressed outward.

The heavy, thick flesh pressed against the cotton.

Her nipples were two points against the white fabric.