novelbest Chapter 273- Nano’s Anger against his Libido
Chapter 273- Nano’s Anger against his Libido
He slapped her pussy.
With his cock.
The flat, wet impact of his shaft against her exposed entrance — the slab of his cock coming down and pressing against her outer lips, smacking against the wet with a sound that was both loud and specific and made her entire lower body jerk in reflex.
"AAHHH~!! HIIEEK~!!"
He did it again.
The same motion — pulling his cock up and bringing it down against her cunt with a practiced, unhurried snap of his hips, the impact sending a wave through her inner lips, the wet spray of it flicking across her inner thighs.
PHACK.
"AAANGHH~!!"
PHACK.
"HIIEEK~!! ’STOP’~!!"
PHACK.
"OUNGH~!! NGH~!!"
Her entrance was fluttering with every impact.
The clenching, open-and-close rhythm of a cunt being slapped against by a cock, the reflex grip trying to catch what was hitting it and closing on air every time.
He watched her face through all of it.
The wide eyes. The open mouth. The tears running sideways from the corners of her eyes into her hair.
He pressed the cockhead against her entrance.
Held it there.
Just the crown. Just the pressure of his tip against the wet opening.
"It’s empty now," he said.
He looked at her directly.
His voice was low. Carrying the flat, honest quality it had when he was saying something he meant.
Her entrance clenched against the pressure of his cockhead.
Trying to pull him in.
Her body answering for itself.
Her eyes found his.
Wet. Demolished. Carrying everything she had tried to say with her badge and her formation and her suppressor collar — all of it stripped back now to the specific, raw look of a woman who has been deflowered and filled and emptied and is looking at the man who did it while her body begs him to do it again.
"Let’s fill it up again."
She moaned.
The sound came out of her before she stopped it.
Long. Low. Broken at the edges.
The moan of a woman who has stopped managing.
His hips pressed forward.
His cock drove home.
All nine inches. No increments this time. No patient millimetres.
Just the full, uninterrupted thrust of a man planting himself in a body he has decided is his.
"AAAAAHHH~!! HIIEEK~!! OUNGH~!! NGH~!! ’YES’~!!"
PAH! PAH! PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
He slapped her pussy.
With his cock.
The flat, wet impact of his shaft against her exposed entrance — the slab of his cock coming down and pressing against her outer lips, smacking against the wet with a sound that was both loud and specific and made her entire lower body jerk in reflex.
"AAHHH~!! HIIEEK~!!"
He did it again.
The same motion — pulling his cock up and bringing it down against her cunt with a practiced, unhurried snap of his hips, the impact sending a wave through her inner lips, the wet spray of it flicking across her inner thighs.
PHACK.
"AAANGHH~!!"
PHACK.
"HIIEEK~!! ’STOP’~!!"
PHACK.
"OUNGH~!! NGH~!!"
Her entrance was fluttering with every impact.
The clenching, open-and-close rhythm of a cunt being slapped against by a cock, the reflex grip trying to catch what was hitting it and closing on air every time.
He watched her face through all of it.
The wide eyes. The open mouth. The tears running sideways from the corners of her eyes into her hair.
He pressed the cockhead against her entrance.
Held it there.
Just the crown. Just the pressure of his tip against the wet opening.
"It’s empty now," he said.
He looked at her directly.
His voice was low. Carrying the flat, honest quality it had when he was saying something he meant.
Her entrance clenched against the pressure of his cockhead.
Trying to pull him in.
Her body answering for itself.
Her eyes found his.
Wet. Demolished. Carrying everything she had tried to say with her badge and her formation and her suppressor collar — all of it stripped back now to the specific, raw look of a woman who has been deflowered and filled and emptied and is looking at the man who did it while her body begs him to do it again.
"Let’s fill it up again."
She moaned.
The sound came out of her before she stopped it.
Long. Low. Broken at the edges.
The moan of a woman who has stopped managing.
His hips pressed forward.
His cock drove home.
All nine inches. No increments this time. No patient millimetres.
Just the full, uninterrupted thrust of a man planting himself in a body he has decided is his.
"AAAAAHHH~!! HIIEEK~!! OUNGH~!! NGH~!! ’YES’~!!"
PAH! PAH! PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
.
.
.
.
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Laboratory — Sublevel 3, Concurrent
The laboratory was never dark.
That was the first thing anyone who had seen it noticed — the specific, humming brightness of forty-three screens running simultaneously, the blue-white light of them bouncing off every surface at all hours, the servers along the back wall blinking their patient, rhythmic green.
Nano did not keep regular hours.
She kept all hours.
The hoodie was the grey one — oversized by three sizes, falling to her mid-thigh, the sleeves past her knuckles, the hood up because she was cold and because she was alone and because there was no one here to see her and she had stopped performing for empty rooms some time ago.
She was seated at the central console.
Petite. Her frame folded into the chair with the comfortable slouch of someone who had logged more hours in this particular position than in any bed she owned. Long legs drawn up, bare feet on the seat edge, her knees making a tent of the hoodie in her lap.
Small body. Tight. The hoodie hiding most of it, but not entirely — the curve of her chest visible where the fabric draped forward, the outline of her underneath it telling a story the oversized garment was making a good-faith attempt to conceal.
She had her eyes on Screen Seven.
Screen Seven was not supposed to be carrying what it was currently carrying.
The SUV had a standard-issue department CCTV unit mounted at the partition — a four-centimeter lens, wide angle, pointing toward the back seat.
Routine monitoring.
Encrypted to the department’s standard protocol.
The standard protocol had lasted approximately forty seconds after Nano decided she wanted to know what was happening in that vehicle.
The decryption had taken six.
Now Screen Seven was carrying a full, uncompressed feed from the back of the SUV in high-definition, and Nano was watching it with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her palm and an expression on her face that had moved through several positions in the last twenty minutes without settling.
She watched Sugar’s back arch.
Watched the back seat shake.
Watched the foam at the base of his cock on the frame where the camera angle caught it — the white ring of it at the junction, evidence she had not expected to see and had not been able to look away from.
"AAAAAHHH~!! HIIEEK~!! OUNGH~!! NGH~!!"
The audio came through the speakers.
Sugar’s voice filling the laboratory.
All forty-three screens.
Nano had not intended to route it to all the speakers.
She had not turned it off.
Her hand moved.
She didn’t immediately register that it had.
The hand that wasn’t holding her chin — the right one, the one that had been resting on the console — had travelled the distance between the keyboard and her own thigh without a conscious instruction being issued.
She registered it when her fingers found the hem of the hoodie.
And kept going.
She was not wearing much under the hoodie.
That was also a standard-hours thing — the laboratory at three in the morning did not require formal dress, and she had stopped maintaining the fiction of preparing for unexpected visitors approximately six months ago.
Plain cotton panties.
That was all.
Her fingers found the fabric.
And found, beneath it, the evidence that her body had been processing the audio and the visual feed on Screen Seven for the last twenty minutes and had reached its own conclusions without consulting her.
Wet.
The cotton soaked through in the center, the fabric warm and damp under her fingertips with the specific, uncomfortable honesty of a body that had been very interested in what it was watching while she had been telling herself she was purely conducting surveillance.
Her jaw tightened.
She looked at Screen Seven.
"You bastard," she said.
Quiet. Not loud. The specific tone she used when she was angry and alone and the anger had nowhere productive to go.
Her finger pressed against the wet cotton.
Her eyes stayed on Screen Seven.
PAH! PAH! PAH! PAH!
"AAANGHH~!! HIIEEK~!! ’YES’~!! OUNGH~!!"
Sugar’s voice through all forty-three speakers.
Nano’s free hand moved to her chest.
Under the hoodie.
Her palm pressing flat against her left breast — the small, tight weight of it filling her hand, the nipple already hard and pressing into her palm with the insistence of a body that had been at this level of alert for twenty minutes and had simply not been acknowledged.
She palmed it.
Slowly.
Her other hand pressing through the cotton against her entrance, the wet fabric dragging inward with the motion, mapping the shape of her beneath it.
"You complete bastard." Her voice was still directed at Screen Seven. Specifically at the part of Screen Seven where his face was visible above Sugar’s shoulder, the flat, unhurried expression of a man doing exactly what he had decided to do with no particular conflict about it. "I will kill you."
Her finger rubbed.
In a circle.
Slow.
Her thighs closed around her hand involuntarily.
She found the pencil.
Not deliberately.
It was on the console where pencils lived in her laboratory — scattered across the surface near the secondary keyboard, the ones she used to annotate printouts when the tablet felt too formal.
Her hand found one while her eyes stayed on the screen.
She looked at it.
At the pencil in her hand.
At the screen.
At her soaked panties.
Her jaw worked.
She looked back at the screen.
PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
"AAANGHH~!! HIIEEK~!! ’DEEPER’~!! OUNGH~!!"