Chapter 552: Chapter-552
[Please read it with your own cautions for this Chapter bears scenes of rape and torture that may shake the heart of some readers]
He wasn’t.
He stood over her for a long moment, watching her shake, listening to the broken little sounds she still couldn’t stop making. Then he reached down, grabbed her by the hair again, and dragged her upright until she was sitting on the edge of the bed. Her head was forced back, tears streaming down her face.
"Open," he ordered.
When she hesitated, he slapped her cheek hard enough to make her cry out, then forced two fingers into her mouth, pressing down on her tongue. She gagged, moaned around them, saliva already dripping down her chin.
"That’s it. Good girl. Moan for me while I use this pretty mouth too."
He pulled his fingers free only long enough to shove his still-hard, blood-slicked cock between her lips. She tried to turn her head. He fisted her hair tighter and pushed forward until the thick head hit the back of her throat. A choked, wet gag turned into a long, muffled groan as he began to fuck her mouth with the same brutal rhythm he had used on her cunt.
"Nngh—mmph—ahh—"
Tears poured faster. Spit ran down her chin and onto her bare breasts. Every time he thrust deep she made a broken, gagging moan, the sound vibrating around him. He held her there, nose pressed to his stomach, until her eyes watered and her body jerked with the need for air—then pulled back just enough for her to gasp and sob before slamming in again.
"Look at you," he growled, voice thick with dark pleasure. "Crying, choking, still moaning like a whore while I ruin your throat. This is what you were made for."
He kept going, using her mouth hard and deep, one hand still twisted in her hair, the other reaching down to pinch and twist a swollen nipple until fresh, muffled screams vibrated around his cock. Her hands pushed weakly at his thighs. He ignored them. He fucked her face until thick strings of spit and tears soaked her chest, until her moans turned into continuous, wrecked sounds of surrender.
When he finally pulled out, a long trail of saliva connected her swollen lips to his cock. She gasped for air, coughing, sobbing, soft broken groans still spilling from her throat.
He didn’t give her time to recover.
He shoved her onto her back again, spread her legs wide, and slammed back into her cunt in one vicious thrust. The sudden stretch punched a raw, high scream out of her that cracked into a long, helpless moan.
"AHH—! Nngh—too much—please—!"
He fucked her even harder than before—deeper, faster, more savage. The bed slammed against the wall with every impact. Her body bounced helplessly beneath him. Every brutal thrust dragged a fresh, throaty groan from her chest; every twist of her nipple or slap to her breast turned it into a broken, sobbing moan.
"Ahh—! Hnnh—ahh—fuck—I can’t—please—!"
He leaned down, bit the soft skin of her shoulder hard enough to leave marks, then licked the tears from her cheek while he pounded into her without mercy.
"You can. You will. Moan louder. Let me hear how much it hurts. Let me hear how much you still take it."
She did. She couldn’t stop. The sounds poured out of her—raw, desperate, continuous. High moans when he hit especially deep. Low, broken groans when he ground against her cervix. Soft, ruined whimpers when he slowed just enough to make her feel every thick inch dragging against her swollen walls before slamming back in.
He kept her like that for a long time—using her, breaking her, listening to every sound she made as if it were the only music he had ever needed. When he finally came again, he buried himself to the root and held her there, pulsing deep while she sobbed and moaned beneath him, voice completely wrecked, body shaking so hard the cushions trembled with her.
Even after he finished he stayed inside her, grinding slow and deep, drawing soft, broken little moans and whimpers from her with every small movement.
Only when he was ready did he pull free. She collapsed completely, legs still spread, body marked and used, soft ruined sounds still slipping from her lips with every shaky breath.
He looked down at her with that same quiet, satisfied smile.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "Still so beautiful when you break for me."
.
.
.
Three hours later, the Water Pavilion wash silent, save for the soft rustle of the wind.
The Prime Minister sat slouching in a carved wooden chair on the balcony, looking out over the dark, rippling koi pond. A half-empty glass of deep red wine dangled loosely from his fingers. His pristine green-and-white robes were completely undone, hanging loosely off his shoulders. With his pale skin, disheveled hair, and exhausted posture, he looked utterly depleted—like a beautiful, lifeless corpse that had just crawled out of the earth.
Inside the pavilion, lying near the edge of the grand bed, was his wife.
She was completely broken. She couldn’t even twitch a single finger. Every inch of her body radiated an agonizing, blinding pain, her breathing reduced to shallow, rattling gasps. She lay on the cold wooden floor, staring blankly at the shadows, waiting for the night to end.
Suddenly, the distinct sound of slow, measured footsteps echoed across the wooden bridge.
The Prime Minister didn’t move, but the woman on the floor immediately began to tremble like a leaf in a storm. She knew exactly who those footsteps belonged to.
The ornate doors of the pavilion were pushed open, and an older woman stepped inside.
She was in her sixties, but time had barely touched her. She was gorgeously preserved, her face bearing the elegant, sharp features that her son had inherited. She was dressed impeccably as a high-ranking matriarch, draped in heavy, dark purple silks embroidered with gold thread, radiating absolute authority and wealth.
"Mother," the Prime Minister murmured, finally turning his head away from the pond. "You are here."
The old matriarch nodded slowly. "Yes."
She stepped further into the room, her gaze sweeping the pavilion before finally landing on the broken, bleeding woman lying on the floor.
There was absolutely no shock in the matriarch’s eyes. There was no pity, no horror, and no empathy. She looked at her severely abused daughter-in-law with the casual, empty disdain one might give a piece of discarded trash on the street. She didn’t see a human being; she just saw a nobody.
The matriarch paused for a second, looking down her nose at the trembling girl.
"So improper," the mother scolded coldly, annoyed that the girl was bleeding on the expensive floorboards.
Hearing that cold, heartless voice, the third wife clamped her eyes shut, trembling even harder in sheer terror.
Completely ignoring the dying girl on the floor, the matriarch walked past her and stepped out onto the balcony. Her cold demeanor instantly melted away, replaced by the warm, excessively doting smile of a loving mother.
She walked up behind the Prime Minister and gently began to ruffle his disheveled dark hair, her touch incredibly tender.
"What happened, my dear?" the mother asked softly, soothing him. "Did someone make you angry today? Did your Madam do something to upset you?"
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