Chapter 8: The Ultimate Temptation and going through with it
The heavy guild doors swung shut, muffling the roar of adventurers within but doing nothing to dampen the electric tension crackling between Yeng and Lyra on the bustling Oasis street. Lyra’s fingers were still laced tightly with his, a connection that felt both illicit and inevitable. Her chest rose and fell rapidly under her shadowweave jerkin, her eyes wide and dark as they locked onto his, a smile playing on her lips – not maternal, but dangerous, inviting. She’d heard his threat, his promise to make Marcus watch, and the sheer audacity of it, the thrilling horror, ignited a wildfire within her.
Yeng met her gaze, the predatory amusement deepening. Her audacity demanded an answer. He dropped her left hand abruptly. Before she could register the loss of contact, his right hand slid around her hip, cupping the firm curve of her right buttock possessively. Smack! A sharp, stinging spank landed on the left cheek, audible even over the street clamor. Smack! Another, equally hard, followed instantly on the right. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath that wasn’t quite pain. Then both his hands clamped down, fingers digging into the supple leather, fully groping her perfect ass, kneading the muscle beneath, pulling her hips hard against him. The heat radiating from where his palms met her leather-clad flesh was intense.
Lyra’s reaction was a masterpiece of conflicting signals. Her right hand – the one that had been intertwined with his seconds before – flew up, not to stop him, but to caress his cheek, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. It was a gesture of startling tenderness amidst the assault. Her left hand, however, came up flat against his chest, the powerful, concealed muscles beneath his tunic. She applied a weak, futile pressure, pushing. Her voice, when it came, was a breathless, fluttering protest, pitched perfectly to be overheard as the act of a loyal wife repelling unwanted advances, yet somehow echoing only for him.
"Y-Yeng! Stop!" she cried, the tremor in her voice genuine, though its source wasn’t indignation. "I-I don’t know if I can really go through with it, my son! I’m faithful and loyal, and you know it, son! To let you… to let you fuck me? Your own mom? To cuck your father and really turn him into a… a cuck right in front of everyone? It's madness!" Her pushing hand trembled. The facade was desperate, pleading.
But beneath the words, beneath the fake resistance, her body told a different story. Her hips ground subtly against the possessive grip of his hands. Her eyes, locked on his, burned with a feverish hunger that obliterated the pretense of refusal. And then, as if the feeble push drained the last of her acting strength, her left hand abandoned its charade. Instead of pushing, her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic, gripping it desperately, anchoring herself to him. She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her whisper a hot, urgent confession disguised as a moral reprimand, laden with every filthy detail she could muster.
"Don’t you know it’s wrong?" she breathed, her voice husky, thick with desire. "Wrong to fuck your own mom? Wrong to fuck your own father’s wife? To turn your own Dad into a pathetic, hornless cuck? If you fuck me…" Her grip on his tunic tightened, her knuckles white. "...you’re going to make us commit incest and adultery at the same time. You’re going to really fuck…" Her breath hitched, a soft moan escaping. "...your Father’s loyal, faithful wife’s… warm, wet, tight pussy, my son. You’d ruin me for him forever. Fill me so full of you he’d know just by looking, just by touching me… he’d know his wife belongs to her son's cock now."
The raw explicitness of her whispered confession, the way she detailed her own violation and Marcus’s humiliation while clinging to him, sent a jolt of dark power through Yeng. She was unraveling beautifully, her carefully constructed loyalty crumbling under the weight of her obsession. He held her gaze, his hands still possessively gripping her ass, feeling the tremor running through her. His smile was slow, dangerous, utterly devoid of the benign son Marcus believed him to be.
"Oh, mother," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. "Wrong? Perhaps. But you don't sound like you want me to stop." He gave her ass another deliberate, possessive squeeze, his thumb tracing the seam of her leather trousers near the apex of her thighs. "You sound like you're begging me to prove just how unfaithful his loyal wife can be."
The heavy guild doors groaned open again, flooding the street corner with a fresh wave of noise, laughter, and the scent of ale and roasted meat. Marcus strode out, radiating satisfaction, a heavy coin pouch jingling prominently at his belt. He beamed, oblivious to the charged tableau inches away, seeing only his wife seemingly trying, albeit weakly, to disentangle herself from their son's protective proximity.
"There you are!" Marcus boomed, clapping his hands together. "All sorted! Healthy bounty for the Drake core, sweetened the pot nicely." He slapped the pouch. He strode towards them, his eyes sweeping over Lyra, lingering on her flushed face with pride. "Everything alright out here, love? You look a bit flustered. Sun getting to you?" He completely missed the way Lyra’s hand, which had been caressing Yeng’s face, now rested limply on his shoulder, or how her other hand was still fisted in Yeng’s tunic, knuckles white.
Lyra wrenched herself back with a force that was only half-feigned, stumbling slightly. She smoothed her shadowweave jerkin, her breath still coming fast, her eyes wide and slightly unfocused. "F-flustered? Oh, Marcus, no! Just… just the heat. And… and Yeng was just… expressing his relief we’re all safe." She forced a bright, brittle smile, the perfect picture of a slightly overheated, devoted wife. "He’s still so shaken by the Spine, poor thing." She shot Yeng a look that was pure venom mixed with molten promise.
Marcus chuckled, clapping Yeng on the back hard enough to stagger a genuine Level 3. "Ha! Don’t you worry, lad. Your old man’s got you. Safe as houses now!" He slipped a proprietary arm around Lyra’s shoulders, pulling her close, completely unaware of the tremor that ran through her at his touch, or the way her eyes flickered towards Yeng with undisguised longing. "Right! Tonight, we celebrate! The Red Hawks are buying the first round! Come on!" He steered Lyra firmly towards a nearby tavern, 'The Thirsty Wyvern', its sign creaking in the desert breeze.
Yeng followed, a step behind, his expression unreadable. He watched the set of Marcus’s shoulders, the proud way he held Lyra, the absolute certainty in his voice. The Hero-level power within him hummed, a counterpoint to Marcus’s oblivious swagger. Lyra shot a glance back over her shoulder, her eyes meeting Yeng’s. In that split second, stripped of Marcus’s direct gaze, the mask dropped completely. Her look was pure, unadulterated heat, a silent vow echoing her whispered words: Warm. Wet. Tight. Yours.
Marcus led them into the raucous warmth of The Thirsty Wyvern, already calling for drinks, the picture of the triumphant Gold-Rank adventurer with his beautiful, 'faithful' wife on his arm. Yeng’s lips curved in a cold, satisfied smile as he stepped through the threshold. The game was escalating. And Marcus, puffing out his chest, was playing his part perfectly, utterly blind to the cuckolding storm brewing right beside him, fueled by his wife’s treacherous desire and his son’s god-like power. The hunt, Yeng knew, was far from over; it had merely entered a new, deliciously dangerous phase right under his father’s proud nose. The next move was his.
The heavy oak door of The Thirsty Wyvern swung shut behind them, instantly plunging them into a wall of sound and thick, warm air. Roaring laughter, the clatter of wooden mugs, the discordant scrape of stools on the stone floor, and the potent reek of cheap ale, roasted nuts, and unwashed bodies slammed into them. Marcus, flushed with success and oblivious to the lingering tension crackling between his son and wife, strode towards the Red Hawks already commandeering a long, scarred table near the roaring hearth. "Over here! First round's on me, lads!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the din, drawing cheers and raised fists.
Lyra’s hand, which had been subtly brushing against Yeng’s back, suddenly gripped his arm with surprising strength as they approached the family’s smaller adjacent table. Instead of taking the seat beside Marcus, she steered Yeng towards the bench and slid in first, pressing herself firmly against the wall. She patted the sliver of space left beside her insistently. "Sit here, sweetheart," she murmured, her voice pitched low for Marcus but laced with an intimate warmth that felt entirely unnatural for a mother addressing her adult son. "Keep your poor mother company." Her eyes, glassy but intensely focused on his, held a challenge and a promise far removed from maternal concern.
Marcus, busy flagging down a harried barmaid, barely registered the seating arrangement. He saw only his wife making space for their son, a natural familial closeness after their ordeal. "Aye, sit, son," he agreed absently, already calling out the order. "A round of your best dark ale for the Hawks! And two more for us!" He dropped heavily onto the bench opposite them, beaming. As the frothing mugs arrived, Lyra immediately leaned into Yeng, her shoulder pressing against his arm, her thigh a warm line against his own beneath the table. She lifted her mug, her fingers brushing his knuckles as he grasped his. "To safe returns," she toasted, her gaze locked on Yeng’s, a secret smile playing on her lips as she took a deep gulp.
The ale flowed freely, round after round arriving as Marcus’s coin pouch steadily lightened. The tavern descended into the familiar chaos of a heavy drinking night. Boastful tales from the Red Hawks echoed louder and more slurred across their table – embellished fights, improbable escapes, the size of slain beasts growing with each retelling. Borin slammed his fist on the wood, recounting a dubious encounter with a sand wyrm. "Bastard lunged, teeth like daggers! I just stood there, didn’t I? Let him come! Bashed his skull in with one swing!" Nika giggled, nearly toppling off her stool. Varis sat rigid, his hood pulled low, silently nursing his ale, a dark, detached island amidst the revelry.
Marcus, cheeks ruddy, eyes bright but unfocused, leaned across the table towards Lyra. "Remember that time, love?" he slurred, reaching clumsily for her hand resting near her mug. "By the Whispering Falls? Just us… perfect moon…" Lyra snatched her hand back with a speed that startled even her, tucking it into her lap under the table. "Hmm? Oh, yes, Marcus. Lovely," she replied, her voice clipped, her attention snapping instantly back to Yeng. She leaned closer, her breath warm and ale-scented against his ear, deliberately loud enough for Marcus to hear yet disguised as maternal affection. "Poor darling, you look tense. All this noise." Her hand landed high on his thigh, hidden by the tablecloth, her fingers pressing deliberately into the hard muscle. "These adventures are too much for you, aren't they? My sensitive boy." Her thumb traced a slow, possessive circle.
Yeng nursed his ale, the Omni-System humming silently within his mind. It filtered the sensory overload, dampening the effects of the alcohol even as he matched the others mug for mug. Subtle tendrils of energy, invisible to any observer, worked through his system, metabolizing the toxins, restoring clarity moment by moment. He felt Lyra’s hand on his thigh, the heat radiating from her body, the increasingly desperate edge to her feigned concern. He played along, offering her a slightly dazed smile. "Just loud, mother," he murmured back, letting his own hand drop beneath the table, resting lightly over hers where it gripped his leg. He felt her jolt at the contact, a sharp intake of breath escaping her parted lips.
Hours bled away. The tavern floor became treacherous terrain. Men slumped over tables, snoring. One adventurer crawled towards the door before vomiting spectacularly into a spittoon. Others argued incoherently in corners. The Red Hawks were dissolving. Kael slid sideways off his stool, landing with a grunt on the sawdust-strewn floor. Elara rested her head on Borin’s massive shoulder, mumbling. Nika giggled at nothing. Varis remained upright but utterly still, like a statue. Marcus, swaying precariously, kept trying to engage Lyra. "Lyra? Love? We should… we should dance!" He attempted to stand, stumbled, and slumped back down. "D'you remember… the song…?"
Lyra, her own movements becoming loose and uncoordinated, her eyes glazed, ignored him completely. She draped an arm around Yeng’s shoulders, her fingers tangling in his long black hair. "So handsome," she slurred, her voice thick, leaning her head against his. "My strong, powerful son." Her hand slid down his chest, dangerously low. "So much… bigger… than…" She trailed off, giggling drunkenly against his neck, her breath hot. Her other hand, unseen beneath the table, was no longer idle; it pressed firmly against the growing bulge in his trousers, fingers exploring the impressive outline with drunken, possessive curiosity.
Yeng’s Omni-System painted a crystal-clear picture through the haze: Marcus – Drunk (Severe), Motor Control: Critical Impairment, Cognitive Function: Minimal. Lyra – Drunk (Severe), Arousal: Escalating, Inhibitions: Negligible. Red Hawks: All Drunk (Severe to Unconscious). Tavern Patrons: 87% Incapacitated. Perfect. He let the final vestiges of the alcohol's illusion fade, the Omni-System completing its work. His mind was sharp, his body humming with sober power beneath the facade of inebriation. He watched his father, the proud Gold-Rank warrior reduced to a mumbling, drooling wreck, his arm slipping clumsily around Lyra’s slumped shoulders. A slow, predatory smile touched Yeng’s lips.
He reached over the table and patted Marcus’s head, a patronizing gesture one might use on a child. "Alright, Dad," Yeng said, his voice deceptively gentle, cutting through his father’s drunken mumbling. "Time for bed. You and Mom need sleep." Marcus blinked blearily, focusing with immense effort. "Bed… yes… Lyra…" He tried to stand again, pulling feebly at Lyra’s arm. "Come… wife…" He managed to haul himself half-upright, then immediately lost balance, collapsing back onto the bench with a groan, nearly taking Lyra with him. She whimpered, barely conscious, her head lolling.
"Whoa there, Dad," Yeng said smoothly, standing up with steady grace that belied the amount he'd supposedly drunk. "Easy. Let me help Mom. You lead the way upstairs. I’ll carry her." Marcus, overwhelmed by the simple task, nodded dumbly, relief washing over his slack features. "Uh… yeah. Good lad. Room… upstairs." He staggered to his feet, swaying like a sapling in a gale, and began a slow, unsteady shuffle towards the rickety staircase at the back of the tavern, bumping into chairs and muttering apologies to no one.
Yeng bent and effortlessly scooped Lyra into his arms. But instead of a bridal carry, he shifted her weight. Instinctively, her legs parted, wrapping around his waist, her arms clinging loosely to his neck. Her head fell against his shoulder, her breath hot and quick against his skin despite her drunken stupor. His hands settled firmly beneath her, fingers splayed wide against the supple shadowweave covering her ass, the position inherently intimate. As he followed Marcus’s wobbly ascent, navigating the narrow stairs, his grip shifted subtly. The heel of his palm pressed into the firm curve of one cheek, his fingertips grazing perilously close to the apex of her thighs. Through the thin leather, he felt the distinct damp heat radiating from her core. He brushed against the seam of her trousers, the sensitive lips beneath yielding slightly to the pressure. She moaned softly, a needy sound muffled against his neck, her hips arching minutely towards his touch. Marcus, stumbling ahead, oblivious to the scene unfolding inches behind him, focused solely on putting one foot in front of the other.
They reached the small, dimly lit room Marcus had secured. Marcus fumbled with the simple latch before shoving the door open and lurching inside. He made it two steps before his legs gave way completely, and he collapsed face-first onto the narrow double bed, out cold almost instantly, boots still on, one arm dangling limply off the side.
Yeng stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him with a soft but decisive thud. He carried Lyra to the bed, the only other furniture a rickety chair and a washstand. He didn't lay her gently beside Marcus. He paused at the bedside, her legs still wrapped tightly around his waist, his hands gripping her ass, holding her suspended over the unconscious form of her husband. The position left her utterly vulnerable, spread open before him. Her head lolled back, eyes half-lidded, unfocused but filled with a desperate, drunken yearning. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps.
Yeng’s gaze swept over both his parents: Marcus, the oblivious cuckold, already snoring, utterly defeated by cheap ale; and Lyra, his mother, his father’s faithful wife, trembling in his arms, already half-ruined by desire for him. A cold, triumphant smile spread across his face, the power of a Level 31 Hero vibrating beneath his skin. He lowered his head first to Lyra’s ear, his whisper a hot, deliberate blade slicing through the drunken haze. "Tonight is the night, mother." Then, he leaned across her towards Marcus’s prone ear, his voice dropping to a chilling, intimate murmur that carried the same terrible weight. "Tonight is the night, father."
He straightened, holding their shared silence. Lyra whimpered, a sound of terrified anticipation. Marcus snored on. Yeng’s voice, low and resonant with absolute certainty, filled the small room.
"I'm going to fuck my mother. Right here. Right next to you, Dad. While you sleep like the pathetic drunk you are." His grip tightened on Lyra’s ass, pulling her impossibly closer against his hardened length, making her gasp. "I'm going to fuck your precious, loyal, faithful wife so hard. So deep. So perfectly." He locked eyes with Lyra’s glazed, terrified, ecstatic gaze. "My magnificent cock is going to ruin her tight, warm, wet little pussy for anyone else. Especially you." He shifted his focus back to Marcus’s oblivious face. "Tonight, father, you finally become what you truly are. A cuck. Sleeping right next to another man plowing the wife you think loves only you. Get used to the sound." He leaned in, his lips brushing Lyra’s cheekbone, his final words directed at both, a declaration and a sentence. "Tonight, the cuckold sleeps. And his wife learns who really owns her."
Yeng lowered her onto the narrow bed beside the snoring bulk of her husband. Her legs instinctively parted as he settled between them, his powerful frame poised above her like a conqueror claiming territory. He moved with deceptive speed, yet each action radiated a focused, almost reverent care – the swift removal of her boots, the peeling away of her shadowweave jerkin and tunic, baring her torso. His hands, warm and steady, found the clasp at the back of her simple linen bra.
He slowed now, savoring the unveiling. The fabric parted, releasing the soft, full weight of her breasts into the cool air. Yeng cupped them gently, his thumbs brushing over her hardened pink nipples, his gaze tracing their perfect, flushed curves mere inches from Marcus’s oblivious form. He leaned down, burying his face between them, inhaling the scent of her skin – ale, sweat, and something uniquely Lyra. His lips, then his tongue, found one nipple, circling, sucking, drawing a low, shuddering moan from her drunken lips. He lavished equal attention on the other, his hands gently kneading the yielding flesh, his own arousal a heavy pulse against her inner thigh. "So perfect, mother," he murmured against her skin, the vibration making her gasp.
His mouth continued its worship, moving hungrily from one peak to the other, while one hand descended. Fingers traced the flat plane of her abdomen, dipping into the shallow well of her navel. He circled it slowly, rhythmically, a mimicry that sent unexpected ripples through her core. Then his touch travelled lower, skimming over the curve of her hip, tracing the sensitive inner line of her thigh. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her thin cotton panties. He peeled them down with agonizing slowness, revealing the neatly trimmed triangle of dark curls and the glistening, puffy pink folds beneath, already slick with her arousal. "Look at you," he breathed, discarding the panties. "So wet for your son."
Yeng stood swiftly, shedding his own clothes with efficient grace. In the dim light filtering through the shuttered window, his naked form was a sculpture of honed power. His cock, fully erect, was a staggering testament to his newfound Heroic physiology – massively thick, impossibly long, a throbbing, flushed pillar of flesh that defied belief. He positioned himself back between her thighs, the swollen head pressing firmly against her soaked entrance, the heat radiating like a brand. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a deep, possessive kiss, his tongue plunging into her mouth. He let her taste his saliva, felt her swallow reflexively as his hands returned to grope and squeeze her breasts, his hips grinding his heavy cock up and down her slick slit, directly over her swollen clit. The triple assault – mouth, hands, and cock grinding her most sensitive spot – tore a loud, wanton moan from her throat, louder even than Marcus’s snores.
He broke the kiss, trailing hot, wet lips down her neck, to the delicate shell of her ear. His whisper was a hot knife slicing through the last vestiges of her resistance. "I'm going to fuck you, mom. Right here. Right next to Dad. Since you've craved this monstrous cock since the Goblin Lair, I'm going to ruin you with it. So deep, so perfect, his pathetic four inches will feel like a child’s finger afterwards. You’ll never see your husband as anything but a cuckold again. Beg for it. Beg your son to fuck you and cuck your beloved husband."
Simultaneously, the Omni-System hummed silently. A precise command flowed: Lower Lyra's Blood Alcohol Content: Target 10%. Gradual descent. Enhance sensory feedback. The potent haze of ale began to recede, not with sickening clarity, but replaced by an intensifying wave of hyper-sensitive pleasure radiating from everywhere he touched her. From 87%... 80%... 70%... Each percentage point shed peeled away a layer of numbness, replacing it with searing awareness of his fingers on her nipples, his cock grinding her clit, his breath on her neck. 60%... 50%... The moans escaping her became less drunken slurs and more desperate, conscious cries. 40%... 30%... Her eyes, previously glazed, snapped wide with dawning horror and overwhelming, undeniable ecstasy. 20%... 10%. Fully sober. Fully aware. Fully feeling the immense weight of his cock pressing against her married pussy, the possessive grip on her breasts, the reality of her husband snoring beside them. "Oh gods... Yeng... please," she gasped, no longer slurring, her voice thick with terrified need. "Fuck me... Son... please... make me... cuck him... use me..."
He saw the clarity in her wide, panicked, yet lust-drenched eyes. She was ready. He aligned himself, the immense, blunt head pressing against her tight, wet entrance. Even drenched, the sheer girth was daunting. He applied steady, inexorable pressure. Millimeter by agonizing millimeter, her delicate inner flesh yielded, stretched beyond anything Marcus had ever demanded. A lewd, wet squelching sound filled the small space as the massive crown finally popped past her resisting lips and plunged deep into her channel. Lyra cried out, a sharp, choked sound of shock and overwhelming sensation. "Ahhh! Son!"
Yeng smiled, a predator savoring his capture. He leaned close, his lips brushing hers, his breath mingling with hers. "Shhh, mom," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. "Don't be too loud. You wouldn’t want Dad to wake and hear his oh-so-loyal, faithful wife, the one he swells with pride over, moaning like a tavern whore for another man's cock. Especially not her son's." He pulled back slightly, then pushed forward again, sinking deeper. "Let's begin the fucking. Right here. Beside your loving, trusting husband."
He began to move. Slow, deep strokes at first, each thrust forcing more of his impossible length and thickness into her. He could feel her inner walls fluttering, stretching, accommodating him in ways Marcus could never dream of. His cockhead bumped against her cervix, a profound, internal pressure that made her gasp and arch her back. "So deep... oh fuck, son... so much deeper than he... than Marcus... ever could... no... never..." Her words dissolved into moans as he established a rhythm, powerful hips driving his thick shaft into her married pussy with increasing force. "You're... you're filling me... stretching me... Gods, Yeng... your cock... it's... obscene... perfect..."
Her moans grew louder, unrestrained, taking on a raw, slutty edge. She clapped a hand over her own mouth, eyes wide with the shame of her own sounds. Yeng snatched her wrist, pinning it firmly above her head against the pillow. "No hiding," he commanded, his voice rough with his own building tension. "Let him hear. Let the whole fucking inn hear his wife getting railed by her son." Freed, Lyra's cries spilled out – gasps, whimpers, and then, punctuating the slap of flesh on flesh, dirty, desperate words.
"Fucking me... my own son... fucking his mother... so good... so much better... stronger... bigger... bigger everywhere!" Her voice hitched as he slammed particularly deep. "Marcus... my Marcus... sleeping... snoring... while his son... oh fuck!... while Yeng... while my son... splits me open with this... this monster cock! He thinks... he thinks I'm faithful... loyal... Ha! Look at me! Getting fucked... ruined... by my boy! Making his wife... your mother... a cuckquean... a son-fucking slut... right beside him!" She turned her head towards Marcus's slack face, her voice dropping to a venomous, lust-filled whisper aimed at Yeng's ear. "See him? Your father? The cuckold... sleeping while I take your incredible cock... deeper than he ever dreamed... stretching me wider... making me moan louder... for you... not him. Never him again... after this... he's just... the cuck... my cuck... your cuck... oh fuck, son! I'm close!"
Her back arched off the bed, her free hand clawing at his shoulder. "No! Yeng, no! You can't... can't make your own mother cum on your cock! Not here! Not next to your father! It's wrong... so wrong... filthy... but... oh gods... you're fucking your father's wife... so perfectly... I can't... I can't stop it! If you make me cum like this... like this... I'll break! I'll never... never see Marcus as my man again! Only as... as the pathetic cuck... watching in my mind... while you own me! Oh FUCK! I’m cumming, son! I’M CUMMING ON YOUR COCK!"
Yeng’s grin was feral, triumphant. He pistoned into her, hitting her cervix with deliberate force. "Do it," he growled, the command thrumming with power. "Cum on your son's cock. Right next to the cuckold. Let him hear you belong to me now."
Lyra’s body convulsed violently. Her inner walls clamped down on his invading thickness with incredible, rhythmic force, a pulsing, fluttering vise. A guttural, almost feral scream tore from her throat, unrestrained, echoing in the small room, easily drowning out Marcus’s snores. "FUCK! YES! YOU'RE FUCKING YOUR MOMMY BEYOND HER WILDEST DREAMS, SON! I'M CUMMING! CUMMING ON YOUR COCK! ANOTHER MAN'S COCK! RIGHT NEXT TO THE MAN I MARRIED! WE'RE DOING IT! WE'RE REALLY FUCKING DOING IT! CUCKING YOUR FATHER AS HE SLEEPS! ME! HIS LOYAL, FAITHFUL WIFE... PRIDE AND JOY... SCREAMING FOR MY SON'S SPERM! FUCK! IT'S REAL! HE'S A CUCK! MARCUS IS A CUCKOLD! RIGHT NOW! REALITY!" Her voice peaked in a shattering wail as her orgasm triggered a gush of warm fluid, soaking the sheets beneath them, her body shuddering uncontrollably as the brutal, irreversible truth slammed into her with the force of Yeng’s punishing, delicious pleasure filled driving thrusts. The cuckolding wasn't just a fantasy whispered in the street; it was a wet, noisy, undeniable fact happening inches from her husband's unconscious face.