Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 614

Chapter 614: Break Every Chain (r-18)

The air in the relaxation room was a living thing, thick with the scorching musk of mom’s arousal, the sweet burn of vanilla from the candle flickering on the side table, and the sharp tang of polished ebony warmed by her dripping cunt.

The invisible speakers throbbed with the dying echo of the Nocturne, the Steiway’s massive soundboard still humming, sending micro-vibrations through the piano lid, through her trembling thighs, into my tongue buried in her pussy.

The taboo was a pulsing inferno, the forbiddenness of mother and son no longer a wall but a volcano, erupting with every lick, every slap, every raw scream, the wrongness amplifying every sensation until my cock was a molten spike, pre-cum soaking my jeans, the denim chafing the sensitive head with every heartbeat.

The Halo screamed in my veins, a primal drumbeat syncing with her pulse, her thoughts a blasphemous gospel: {My son’s eating his mother’s cunt, rimming my ass, claiming every hole, I’m his, fuck the world, I’m his.}

Linda was a desecrated goddess sprawled across the piano lid, her body a glistening altar of sin.

Her pussy was a swollen, dripping wreck, lips parted and flushed dark pink, clit throbbing under the soaked lace, her come pooling in glossy puddles on the ebony, the wood slick and reflective, catching the candlelight in obscene mirrors.

The lace skirt, bunched at her waist like a fallen halo, was sheer and ruined, clinging to her hips, the slit torn wider from her thrashing.

Her bralette was a shredded afterthought, one strap snapped, both breasts spilling free—heavy, pendulous, swaying with each shuddering breath, nipples dark and bruised, glistening with sweat and her own frantic pinches. Her ass was a canvas of my palm prints, red and blooming, the cheeks trembling, slick with her arousal dripping down her crack.

Her thighs quaked, inner flesh flushed crimson, muscle spasming under silk-smooth skin, the faint rasp of her heels scraping the piano lid a gritty counterpoint to her moans.

Her feet, arched high, toes painted blood-red, curled so tight the knuckles whitened, the tendons straining like bowstrings.

I was a beast unleashed.

My hands clawed her hips, fingers sinking into the scalding, sweat-slick flesh, the heat of her skin searing my palms, the soft give of her curves bruising under my grip, each mark a claim.

I again yanked her to the most edge of the piano lid, her ass sliding through the warm, viscous pool of her come, the slick sound a wet schlick that mingled with her gasps.

Her legs splayed wider, thighs parting until her pussy was a dripping, pulsing offering, the outlining of every fold, every throb of her clit, the scent—musk, salt, her forbidden essence—choking my lungs, flooding my senses until my vision tunneled.

This is my mother’s cunt, the woman who raised me, loved me, and I’m devouring her like she’s my fucking salvation.

I buried my face in her again.

My tongue speared her cunt, plunging into the scorching, velvety heat, lapping the torrent of her release, the taste exploding—salty, sweet, metallic, her—a sacrilege that set my soul ablaze.

The texture was obscene: her walls slick and pulsing, coating my tongue, her juices thick and creamy, sliding down my throat like liquid sin. I sucked her clit, swollen and throbbing, the nub hard as a pearl under my lips, teeth scraping just enough to make her shriek—

"HRRNGH—FUCK—MY BABY!"—a raw, guttural sound ripped from her core, her hips bucking, the piano lid creaking under her weight.

Her hands fisted my hair, nails carving bloody crescents into my scalp, the sting sharp and perfect, guiding me deeper. Her thighs clamped my head, the silky, sweat-drenched skin burning my cheeks, the muscle spasming, the faintsalt of her sweat mixing with her pussy’s musk on my tongue.

I circled it, pressing the tip inside, feeling the resistant clench, then the give as she relaxed, her wail a high, shattered keen—"AAAAH—PETER—MY ASS!"—her thoughts a scream: {My son’s tongue in my asshole, licking his mother’s dirtiest hole, fuck, it’s so wrong, I’m burning, I’m his,}

I licked her from asshole to cunt, long, greedy strokes, my tongue flattening against her perineum, the skin hot and pulsing, then plunging back into her pussy, sucking her walls, the wet squelch of her juices filling the room, mingling with her moans—a savage, varied chorus: "GRRRH—UNGH—OHHH—HNNGH!"—each one punched from her gut, raw and animal, some low and guttural, others high and keening

—"YEEEAAAH—FUCK—PETER!" I played her clit, flicking it with the tip of my tongue, circling, sucking hard, the nub throbbing under my lips, the texture slick and swollen, her screams climbing—"HNN—YES—GRRRH!"

Her hands were frantic, guiding, owning. One yanked my hand to her breast, ripping the bralette clean off, the fabric tearing with a sharp *rip*, her tits bouncing free, heavy and slick with sweat, the weight of them spilling into my palm, the nipple stabbing my skin like a blade.

"Spank me—UNGH—own me!" she gasped, her thoughts a chant: Hit your mother, mark me, make me feel it.

I spanked her harder, rhythmic, the CRACK-CRACK-CRACK syncing with my tongue on her clit, flicking, sucking, playing it like a virtuoso, the wet slurps and her moans—"GRRRH—OHHH—HNN!"—a filthy orchestra.

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