He held himself deep.
He did not thrust. He simply stayed buried. He felt her womb contracting. He felt her walls gripping. He felt the sore, stretched, well-used cunt of a mother who had been fucked all night and was now being filled at her own breakfast table with her son in the privy.
"Away," he said. "To the palace. To the First Queen. To collect your payment. I told you."
"Aaahn~" was her answer. Not words. Just the sound of a woman with a demon in her belly trying to form language.
"You will come with me," he continued. "You and the child. The child because he belongs to the palace. You because I have decided you are mine. Your ass, your tits, your cunt, your mouth. All mine. You are not a flower seller anymore. You are mine."
"Aaahn~ y-yes—" She turned her face sideways on the table. Her cheek pressed against the wood. Her heart-shaped eyes looked at the wall. "My master—"
"Good."
He began to move.
PAH PAH PAH—
"Mmngh~!! Hngh~!! Ngh~!!"
