I started moving my finger in slow, deliberate strokes, watching her face contort with each thrust. When my thumb found the swollen bud of her clit, she nearly came off the futon.
"This, this is so—" she gasped, hands shot up to stop my assault, but she quickly rallied them down, clutching at the bedding beneath her instead.
Hips rocking against my hand despite herself. I worked her steadily, thumb circling her long forsaken clit while my finger curved to find that spot inside that made even proud women forget how to speak.
The orgasm built fast, too fast. She'd clearly never experienced proper foreplay before. Her thighs trembled and jerked in a rather unseemly and funny way, pressing against my hand as if trying to escape the overwhelming sensation.
"Let it happen," I commanded softly. This was a strong one. "Don't fight it."
When she finally broke, it was with a choked sob that she tried desperately to muffle behind her hand. Her body seized, back arching as her walls clamped down on my finger in rhythmic pulses. The sight of her coming undone—this proper, controlled woman reduced to mindless pleasure—made my cock throb painfully.
She collapsed afterward, chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. One orgasm and she looked completely wrung out, sweat beading on her forehead despite the cool air.
As a shinobi, I sometimes forgot how weak civilians could be. Add to that her age, late thirties, and clearly out of practice with her own body.
I wouldn't be surprised if she hadn't even touched herself during her widowhood, bound by some misplaced sense of duty to her dead husband's memory.
I made a note to be careful with her and the strength I use. She was not Mebuki, whom I cared not, if I let bruises on her.
Leaning down, I was kissing her again, hands roaming her sensitized body to help her recover. She whimpered against my mouth, still trembling from the aftershocks.
"Please," she gulped air between words. "I... I'm not like this. That was so... This is so selfish of me..."
The shame in her voice was pure traditional Japanese wife, trained to believe her role was to serve, to give pleasure rather than receive it.
I wanted to smile at her adorable guilt, but I was losing my patience. My need to be inside her was becoming painful.
"The night's still young," I murmured against her lips, voice rough with barely controlled lust. "And I'm nowhere near finished with you yet."
She looked at me through those glazed, post-orgasm eyes for a long moment, pupils still dilated with lingering pleasure.
"I was worried my body would be too old, too unsightly for someone like you," she whispered, voice still breathy. "But now... now I fear I won't be able to keep pace with your energy." Her dark eyes searched mine uncertainly. "Are you truly prepared for this with someone so... inadequate?"
While I loved taking advantage of them, the insecurity was getting repetitive. I pinched her nipple and pulled and played. Her brow twitched. Legs shifted. But she kept pretending nothing was happening. Funny, really, how hard she was trying to stay composed with her tit in my hand.
"What do you think?" I growled, rolling the sensitive peak until she couldn't pretend anymore.
She bit down on her lower lip—a gesture so unconsciously beautiful it made my cock twitch—then slowly turned her head to the side. Then—
Without a word, she let her trembling thighs fall open. Wider. Fully spread despite the obvious hesitation in her movements and the shame killing her, offering herself to me with silent surrender.
The sight of her exposed like that—dark hair glistening with moisture, pink flesh swollen and ready—made something primal snap in my chest. Somehow, I found myself settled between her pale thighs, my raging cock already freed from my pants, though I couldn't remember pulling it out.
Good thing I'd kept my clothes on, with it my gear. But truthfully, it was more about how desperately I needed to be inside her than any tactical awareness.
Every second of delay felt like torture.
When the swollen head of my cock pressed against her entrance, she drew in a sharp breath, eyes flying wide. I could feel her body tense beneath me, the reality of what we were about to do hitting her, and her hips twitched like her body couldn't decide whether to flinch away or take me in.
I braced one hand beside her head, the other cupping her jaw, forcing her to look at me. I needed to see it—the shame spreading like ink beneath her skin, burning red across her cheeks, tightening her mouth.
Her lips parted, her jaw worked a bit on her words.
"I've never... not with anyone but my husband, and he was so gentle, so—"
I'd told myself to be careful with her. I'd told myself to go slow. To be patient. She was weaker, older, softer, untouched for years—practically a virgin. I should ease her into it, take my time.
I heeded none of that advice. I wasn't sane enough for patience.
With one angry thrust, I buried my aching cock deep inside her forgotten cunt, bottoming out in a single stroke that made her back snap off the futon. Her cry of shock was immediately smothered as I covered her mouth with mine.
Dammit, she was impossibly tight—like a velvet fist squeezing every inch of me. Her long unused walls rippled around my length, trying to adjust to the sudden invasion. It was the sweetest torture after weeks without pussy, and I had to bite back my own groan of relief.
Her tongue struggled against mine—the only protest available with her mouth sealed—but I quickly overwhelmed it by sucking it deeper and the pressure of my teeth on her lower lip until it went docile.
Once she'd calmed, her muscles stopped trying to push me out and just held, and I'd grown comfortable with her incredible tightness, I began to move, slow, deep strokes that had her inner muscles fluttering helplessly around me.
This was probably the only position she'd ever known, but I was going to show her how a real man fucked. Her dead husbands had been gentle. I was not.
Each thrust stretched her wider than she'd ever been, my thick length stirring places deep inside that had never been touched. I could see it in her face—the shock of fullness, the overwhelming sensation of being completely filled and claimed.
She wasn't ready for the size. Not really. Her hips trembled under me, her legs spread awkwardly wide to accommodate the stretch. Her belly tensed with every push. Her cunt still spasmed now and then—like it couldn't believe it had to take all of me.
My hand was not idle and roamed her body as I fucked her, mapping every inch of skin her conservative upbringing had taught her to hide. I palmed her soft breasts, tweaked her hardened nipples, her dark areola, and traced the soft curve of her belly where it met her hip bones.
I left no part of her untouched. My hands owned her: cupping, stroking, claiming.
Priming her for another orgasm.
And still she kept her lips sealed — except when I coaxed them open for a kiss—trying to hold her shame in with her breath. Her eyes flicking back and forth, pleading in that quiet, panicked way only women like her do, when the body begs for what the mouth was never taught to ask for.
I could feel her climbing toward another peak, much stronger than the first. Her breathing came in sharp pants, fingers, gave up pretense of restraint, clutching desperately at my shoulders.
When I drove particularly deep and pinched her nipple hard simultaneously, she finally broke.
A sob ripped free of her throat—not pain, not quite pleasure, just something too big to keep hidden anymore. Her whole body seized beneath me. Legs locked. Pussy clenched. And then she came—quiet but wild.
She snapped her head to the side, face flushed and contorted, clenching her jaw so tight I could see the muscles straining in her neck. She was trying to choke it down, swallow it whole—but her thighs jerked, her belly fluttered, and a wet, broken sound still slipped through her teeth.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't pretty. It was raw and ugly and real.
Watching a dignified mother — a mother — reduce herself to a writhing, sobbing mess, shedding years of restraint, shame, and dignity in a raw, full-body climax... nearly made me blow my load right then and there.
Her cunt convulsed like a desperate thing, milking my cock with each spasm.
By instinct alone, I'd held back—some primitive part of my brain knew to save my release. By the time I remembered I didn't actually need to restrain myself, her orgasm was already starting to ebb.
And I'd be damned if I finished now like some inexperienced boy. Even sex-drunk, I had standards.
So I stayed buried inside her, not moving, giving her the moment to breathe. But I didn't stay idle.
My hands explored her jerking body, coaxing her back toward readiness. I kissed her swollen lips, her flushed cheeks, and traced the sharp line of her tense jaw with my tongue.
Her head tilted slightly, just enough to offer me her neck again, unconscious, automatic.
Good.
I kissed it. Bit it. Salty with perspiration, I licked her. Sucked just enough to leave a mark. My other hand skimmed her belly, fingers brushing the faint lines etched by motherhood and years of work.
Her modest breasts rose and fell with shallow, shaky breaths. I took one in my hand, cupping it—not to grope, but to hold, to anchor her back into her body. I lavished attention on each nipple, standing hard and dark against her pale skin, sucking and rolling them between my fingers.
Gradually, her breathing deepened again. Her body started responding despite her exhaustion, back arching slightly when I hit sensitive spots, thighs shifting restlessly around my hips.
After a while, her voice came, quiet, hoarse, not quite meeting my eyes.
"…That's… enough, isn't it?" she muttered, almost like she was asking herself. "You're so... different… I never knew it could feel like... but I can't possibly..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
I bit down on her hardened nipple and pulled until it snapped free with a wet sound that made her twitch. Then I moved up, gripping her flushed face between my hands and forcing her to meet my gaze.
Her hair was clinging to her face, stuck with sweat. Her cheeks were streaked with pink, wet from tears and sweat. Drool shone at the corner of her mouth. Her lips were red, bruised, kissed raw. Her eyes, dark, glassy with unshed tears, blinked up at me, dazed and spent.
She was absolutely wrecked,
No trace remained of the composed mother or dignified widow. Just a woman thoroughly fucked and broken open.
I felt proud.
"I haven't finished," I growled against her lips. "And you don't get to leave me like this, sweetheart."
She looked at me with those unfocused eyes, blinking slowly, like she was trying to process my words through the fog of sensation. Then—weakly, like all the strength had been drained out of her—she gave a breath of a laugh.
"You're... you can't be serious…." Her voice cracked. "I couldn't possibly take any more."
I smiled all my teeth.
"You're built tougher than you think, Tsunami," I said, with all the shounen energy I could muster. "I believe in you."
She looked at me like I'd just offered to carry her up a mountain after setting it on fire—half disbelief, half exhausted horror.
Come on, woman. Have faith in yourself.
— — — — — — — —
A/N: Hey everyone!
We've talked about keeping the smut scenes flowing without too much internal monologue, so I really focused on limiting the introspection this time to keep things fast and hot. Hopefully, it was smoother, and I did not mess this up.
Drop a comment and tell me if it worked. Your feedback is super helpful, and as always, thanks for all your amazing support!
PS. You can find 8 chapters ahead at patreon.com/vizem