yasinovel Chapter 302 - Frustrated Seeing His Crush Getting Fucked Like a Bitch
Chapter 302 - Frustrated Seeing His Crush Getting Fucked Like a Bitch
The Queen’s sounds were quieter now — not from less sensation but from too much sensation arriving too continuously for her voice to keep up with. She lay at the bottom of this arrangement with her tits — enormous, sweat-glazed, milk-damp — flattened under Yuxi’s back, her arms wrapped around her daughter’s torso in something that would look like an embrace from the outside and was, functionally, a woman holding on to the only thing available to hold.
The three of them made sounds together.
The maid’s screaming, high and broken and desperately honest.
Yuxi’s muffled, obstructed moans from the middle layer.
The Queen’s low, continuous, almost meditative sounds from underneath.
And over all of it — the flesh sounds.
Phack. PHACK. Phack.
"HAANGHH~!! — MASTER — I’M GOING TO — SOMETHING IS — MY WOMB — YOU’RE FILLING MY — AAAAHNGHHT~!! — IT HURTS — IT HURTS SO — WHY DOES IT FEEL — HIEEKKNGHH~!!"
"MPHHFF~!! — MNGHH~!! — HAAGH~!!"
"Hngh~... mnghh~... haangh~..."
PHACK. PAAAHH.
"HIEEKNGHH~!! AAAAHNGHH~!! MASTER — CANG — I’M — AH — AH — MY WHOLE BODY IS — AAAAAHNGHHT~!!"
The window.
It was a small porthole window, set into the cabin’s outer wall, designed to let in light and the passage of cloud-filtered sky. It was not designed for observation. The angle was wrong for observation. A person would have to be standing on the outer walkway at exactly the right position, at exactly the right height, looking inward at exactly the right moment.
Wei Liang had been walking the outer deck to clear his head.
He had not been trying to look.
He looked anyway.
He saw the bed first — the ruined, soaking expanse of it. Then the bodies — three of them, stacked, moving in a single rhythm imposed from above by the broad-shouldered, utterly naked figure who covered them all. He saw the maid’s face — the girl he’d passed in the corridor an hour ago with a wine vessel in her hands — twisted in the particular expression of someone whose body has become entirely someone else’s business. He saw Yuxi’s dark hair spread across the sheets below, her face pressed into the warm geography of another woman’s thighs.
He saw the Queen.
He recognized her.
The platinum hair. The enormous, sweat-soaked tits. The post-birth belly soft and pale, pressed under her daughter’s weight. Her eyes were closed. Her lips moved in sounds he couldn’t hear through the glass. She looked like a woman dreaming something too large to fit inside a person.
Wei Liang stood on the outer walkway and did not breathe.
PHACK.
The maid’s head snapped back. Her mouth opened in a scream he could see but not hear — the glass absorbed it, left him with only the shape of it, her jaw wide, her throat working, her hands clutching the sheets white-knuckled.
He saw Cang’s face.
In profile. The jaw set. The dark eyes entirely calm. The expression of a man who is not exerting himself. The expression of a man for whom this is simply the natural state of a Tuesday morning on a cultivator transport ship.
Something behind Wei Liang’s eyes went very hot and very white.
His hand found his sword grip.
The knuckles around the pommel went white.
He pressed his mouth closed. Hard enough that the inside of his lower lip split against his teeth. He tasted blood — copper and salt — and did not open his mouth. He stood there and bled quietly into his own mouth and watched.
Phack. PHACK. PHACK.
Three pussies.
He could see them from this angle. The maid’s — flushed, stretched, blood-traced, obscenely open around twelve inches of cock that she was taking with her whole body shaking. Yuxi’s — visible below, pressed against the maid’s face, glistening, the thighs clenched around the maid’s head in convulsive pulses. The Queen’s — swollen, wet, her daughter’s head pressed against it in rhythmic, helpless friction.
Three women. One man. Every inch of them his.
Wei Liang looked down.
His own cock had pressed hard against the inside of his training pants. Urgent, full, shamelessly erect against every fiber of his will. He stared at it with the expression of a man discovering a betrayal.
"I will kill you," he said. Very quietly. To the glass. To the man on the other side of it.
His voice did not shake. He was proud of this, distantly.
He couldn’t finish the sentence.
Not because the words failed. Because his mind completed the arithmetic cleanly and without mercy — the vast, crushing qi pressure he’d felt rolling off that figure the one time he’d been in the corridor when it passed. Late Nascent Soul minimum. More likely beyond. The gap between them was not a gap that swords closed.
He looked at the erection tenting his pants.
He looked back through the glass.
PAAAHH.
"AAAAHNGHHT~!!"
He turned.
He walked down the outer deck. Fast. His jaw locked. His hand still on his sword. His eyes forward and his blood still running slowly from the split in his lip, and his cock still pressing against his pants with the infuriating, traitorous insistence of a body that had made its own decisions about what it had just witnessed.
He reached the inner corridor door. Pushed through it.
He passed the first cross-corridor. The second. His boots on the ship’s wood floor were too loud — he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears over them, could hear the distant, muffled sounds still coming from the residential wing behind him growing quieter with each turn.
He turned a third corner.
A maid.
She was cleaning the corridor wall with a damp cloth, her back to him, her round shoulders moving in steady, circular strokes. She was broad — not fat, but built, the kind of body that came from years of physical work, her hips wide and solid under her service dress, her hair pinned in a functional knot. She had not heard him coming.
He crossed the distance between them in four steps and grabbed her wrist.
She spun around. Her eyes went wide — the reflexive alarm of a woman grabbed unexpectedly from behind, her cloth dropping, her mouth opening.
"Young Master Wei — what—"
He pulled her toward the nearest door. A storage room — door unlocked, he checked the handle in one motion, turned it, pulled her through.
"Young Master—" Her voice went up. "What is happening — what are you—"
He threw her onto the supply bed — a cot really, a narrow thing used by the supply-corridor staff, but solid — and she landed with a full-body bounce, her wide hips hitting the mattress, her thighs falling apart on the impact, her hands flying out to catch herself. Her face when she looked up at him was genuinely alarmed now — the alarm of a woman trying to read a situation rapidly and not liking any of the readings.
"Young Master—" Her eyes found his face. The red eyes. The torn lip still bleeding a thin thread down his chin. The hand still on his sword grip even though he had no reason for the sword in this room. "Young Master, what happened — you’re bleeding — are you hurt—"
He closed the door.
He looked at her.
She looked back.
She was perhaps twenty-two. Round face. Clear skin. The kind of pretty that doesn’t know it’s pretty because it’s been too busy carrying heavy things to check. Her service dress was damp from the cleaning work, pressing against her in ways that made the shape of her body apparent.
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then he reached down and pulled the string of his pants.
His cock slid free of the loosened waistband — flushed, fully hard, pressing outward with the aggressive impatience of something that had been constrained for too long by the thin fabric and Wei Liang’s increasingly irrelevant sense of dignity.
The maid stared at it.