Chapter 52 of 90
Cuckold Points +3000
When she sat, the chain between her legs went tighter.
It had already been buried in the crack of her ass. Now, as her weight came down onto the cushion, it was pulled down and in, deeper, and it sank into her pussy—split it, divided it, pressing her lips apart on either side of the thin silver line so that they swelled out around it, soft and puffy.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
The Poison King had not been able to enjoy a woman in years. His cock had been useless. But today, after Li Yuguo's pill, it was alive—it was roaring—and he had never in his life had a woman as beautiful as this one sitting beside him.
He put his hand on her bare waist and pulled her close against his side.
Nalan Meng's face burned under the mask.
He's my father's age. That was the thought that would not leave her. He had been her father's rival. He had poisoned men for her father. He could have held her on his knee when she was a baby. And now his hand was on her naked waist.
His hand moved up.
It came up over her ribs and closed around her right breast. Through the cage of chains. Over the iron plate. He squeezed, and her breast changed shape in his hand—swelling up between his fingers, the soft flesh bulging through the chains.
He began to knead it.
And as he kneaded, he thought of something.
The woman he had fought that morning. The Ninth County Lord. He remembered her breasts. Under that silver armor, as she spun and struck and leapt through the air at him, he had seen them bouncing—big and heavy and full, even through the plate. And when the wind had caught her skirts on the treetop, the white of her underclothes, the curve of her ass.
He had wanted her. Right there in the middle of the fight. With a dart in her thigh and murder in her eyes, he had wanted her. He had even said so.
Too bad I already have a wife. Otherwise, if you were willing to come over—
He had not been able to have her, of course. But this one—this waitress, with her County Lord's body—was the next best thing. He did not mean to waste the chance.
He slid his fingers to the little iron plate, and slowly pushed it aside.
It slipped off her nipple. And her nipple came out into the light—pink, swollen, already stiff, standing out from the soft white flesh of her breast.
He pinched it between two fingers.
Nalan Meng's face flamed.
All around the table, the others had already begun. Fourteen men had their hands on fourteen pairs of breasts. One was pulling a waitress's plates off with his teeth. One had his face buried between a pair of breasts and was groaning. The whole round table had become one huge, writhing orgy, the soft sounds of women swallowed up in the laughter of men.
The Poison King's breath was coming faster. He was squeezing her harder now, pinching her nipple, rolling it. It was not enough. He hooked his fingers into the chain cage around her breasts and pulled.
The fine chains broke.
They snapped like threads. The iron plates went flying across the table and clattered among the cups.
And her breasts burst free.
They sprang out of the broken net and bounced—up, down, up again—heavy and white and round, swaying with their own weight until they settled. Completely bare. The lantern light poured over them.
On the bench beside the Poison King, the nearest of his guards was sucking his own waitress's nipple. His eyes had slid sideways over her shoulder, and fixed on Nalan Meng's breasts, and stayed there.
The Poison King took both of them in his hands.
He played with them. He squeezed them, lifting them, letting them fall, pressing them together. He pinched one nipple while he kneaded the other breast with his whole palm. He tugged. He twisted. He was thorough and greedy and very, very slow.
Nalan Meng held herself still.
She held back her moans. She held them with everything she had. But her body moved anyway—small involuntary shifts on the bench, her back arching when he pinched, her hips twisting when he pulled—and every time she moved, the chain between her legs moved too. It slid along her slit. It rubbed. It sank deeper, and rolled against her clit, and dragged across her entrance, and she felt herself getting wet—slick and hot—soaking the chain, wetting the cushion beneath her.
The Poison King noticed. He looked down at the dark spot spreading on the bench.
"Lie down," he said. "On the table."
She did it.
She got up from the bench and lay back on the round table among the cups and dishes, with her legs hanging off the edge in front of him. Her bare breasts spread and settled on her chest, two soft white mountains. Her pussy, framed in its triangle of chain, was facing the Poison King's face.
He took her by the ankles and lifted her legs.
Up, and up, and back, until her knees were almost at her shoulders and her ass came up off the table and stuck out toward him, round and white and presented. The curtain of chain at her waist slid down and pooled on the table under her back.
And the center chain went taut.
It sank into her completely. It disappeared into the crease of her pussy, buried there between her lips, and they swelled up on either side of it, puffy and pink and glistening. Behind it, below, through the thin silver line, her asshole showed—small, pink, perfectly clean, clenching at the cool air.
The Poison King put his mouth on her pussy.
He licked her through the chain.
His tongue was hot. Long. It went up the full length of her slit, from bottom to top, pushing the chain deeper as it went, dragging it across her clit. Then down again. Then up. He licked her like a starving dog—wide, wet, greedy strokes, his whole face pressed into her, his nose against her mound.
Nalan Meng's whole body shook.
She could not stop it. She lay on her back on the table with her legs held up by the man she had tried to kill that morning and shook from head to foot. Her bare breasts quivered and bounced on her chest with every shudder.
He sucked at her. He drank her wetness as if it were holy water. She heard him—the wet, slurping, sucking noises—and she heard herself. A moan. Then another. She had started moaning, and she could not stop.
Then he stopped.
He lifted his head, his mouth glistening, and took hold of the chain-skirt at her waist in his fist, and pulled.
The whole thing tore away. The waist-chain, the curtain of strands, the triangle, the center chain—all of it, ripped out from between her legs in one long rasping drag that made her cry out, and flung aside onto the floor.
She was completely naked.
He opened his robe, and took out his cock.
It had been years. And now it was roaring. It stood up out of his robe thick and dark and veined, the head swollen and purple and shining—the cock of a Martial King, made new.
He pulled her off the table and into his lap.
He did it in the same position he had held her on the table—her legs going around his waist, one on each side, her chest against his. He sat her down on him. And his cock pressed up between them, hot and rigid, against her belly, as far up as her navel.
He bent his head and sucked her nipple into his mouth.
Then he reached down between them with one hand, and took his cock, and pushed it down. Down, under her. So that she was sitting on it.
Not in her. On her. Lying along her. The shaft pressed flat up against her pussy, nestled into the wet seam, her lips parted and wrapping around it on either side like two halves of a peach around a stone. And the swollen head of it, pushing out the far side, nudged against the pucker of her asshole.
He put his hand on her ass and held her there.
Nalan Meng remembered.
Too bad I already have a wife. Otherwise, if you were willing to come over—
That morning. In the clearing. With the poison in her leg. He had said it to mock her. To mock her husband. And now here she was, naked on his lap, with her pussy spread around his cock.
The shame of it went through her like a blade.
And he began to move.
He rocked her. With his hand on her ass, he slid her back and forth along the length of his cock, slowly, rubbing his shaft along her wet slit. The thick ridge of the head bumped her clit at one end of every stroke and her asshole at the other. She was so wet that it made a sound—an obscene, slick, sucking sound every time she slid. All around the table, the other waitresses were moaning. The whole table was moaning. It was a sight out of some painted scroll in a brothel.
The guard on the bench beside them had been staring at Nalan Meng's breasts since the beginning. He was still staring at them now. Even with his own waitress's breast in his mouth, his eyes were on Nalan Meng.
The Poison King noticed. It annoyed him.
So he took her by the waist and shoved her sideways—straight at the man.
Her soft, bare breasts hit him full in the face.
The guard froze. For a moment he did not understand what had happened. Then he did, and he let out a muffled groan into her cleavage. "Thank—thank you, Lord—"
Nalan Meng ended up on her hands and knees across the bench and the edge of the table, like a cow on all fours. Her breasts were hanging in the guard's face, rubbing against it. Her ass was in the air on the Poison King's side.
He took both her cheeks in his hands and spread them, and put his tongue to her pussy again.
The guard's own waitress watched all of it. Her face behind her mask was tight with jealousy. Her man had his face in someone else's breasts. So she reached over, and took Nalan Meng by the back of the head, and pushed her face down. Down past the guard's chest, into his lap.
Onto his cock.
Through the cloth of his trousers. She could feel it under her cheek, hard and hot, pushing up against her face.
She was bent perfectly now. Her face in one man's lap, her breasts against his belly, her ass high in the air for the Poison King.
And the Poison King pushed his tongue inside her.
Not along her—inside. Between her lips, into the hot clenching entrance of her pussy, as deep as it would go. He licked her from the inside. He curled it. She felt it move in her.
She moaned. Into the guard's lap. Against his cock. Her mouth was open and wet against the cloth, and her saliva was dripping out of it, soaking through his trousers onto his cock.
She was mortified. Her pussy was being sucked dry by the Poison King, from the inside, in front of thirty people. And her body was answering him. It was clenching on his tongue. It was gushing.
Then he pulled her back.
Hard. Up off the guard's lap, by the hips, so sudden that her breasts bounced high with the movement. And he set her down on his lap again, in the same place as before. Astride him. On his cock.
His cock-head was rubbing against her wet pussy now. Up and down, along her slit. Slick with her and with his own saliva. The sensation of it was driving him mad. He had not felt anything like it in years.
He was very close.
Only a few more strokes. A few moments.
He came.
It poured out of him. All of it, all those years of it, stored up and stoppered and waiting. Hot and thick, in long jerking spurts, pumping up between them and spilling over her. Over her pussy. Into the crease. Down the cleft of her ass, over her asshole, dripping. White and heavy and so much.
The Poison King sat back, panting. He was exhausted.
Nalan Meng was still sitting on his cock. She could feel it softening slowly against her pussy. She could feel his cum running out of her crease, sliding down over her asshole, dripping onto his thighs and the bench.
Slowly, she stood up.
The cum ran down her inner thighs as she stood. She did not look at him. She did not look at anyone. She turned and walked away from the round table with shame burning in her face, and behind her, the other men were finishing too, one by one, groaning into the breasts and the laps of their waitresses.
In the bathroom at the back of the second floor, she cleaned herself.
She washed the cum out of the crease of her pussy and out of the cleft of her ass. She washed her breasts, which were red and marked with the imprint of his fingers and the broken chains. She washed her face under the mask. Then she put on her own clothes, and went home to the mansion through the dark streets, silently.
Her mind was a mess.
So many shameful nights, one after another. Table nine. The box. And now this.
And her pussy was still twitching. Even now. Even walking through the empty streets in her black robe, it was still twitching and clenching on nothing.
I like it, she thought.
It came out of nowhere. Clear and cold.
I've begun to like showing off my body in public. Walking across that floor with my ass bare. Feeling them look.
She shook her head hard. "No," she whispered fiercely to herself. "No. That can't be. I'm not a slut. I'm not the kind of woman who would enjoy a thing like that."
But she said it twice. And the second time, she was not sure which of the two of them she was trying to convince.
She came back to the mansion and went to her room.
On the other side of the house, Li Yuguo was asleep in his bed, finally. He had stayed up past midnight planning and then fallen into sleep all at once, the way exhausted men do, on top of the blankets with his boots still on.
He did not see the window.
It opened in the dark above his face, soft and gold, and hung there glowing over the sleeping man while he dreamed.
[ Cuckold Points +3000 ]
Current Cuckold Points: 5700 Cuckold Bar: 77%
(Converted to life span.) Remaining Life Span: 139 days
It waited for a while. Then it faded.
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