nagpurpolice Chapter 606 - 605- Dara Will Taste Delicious
Chapter 606 - 605- Dara Will Taste Delicious
She was the center of attention.Dara had found the common pot — the sad, underfunded, unambitious pot that was supposed to feed the common soldiers — and had apparently taken it over. She stood behind the fire, her brown dress tight on her fucked-out body, a ladle in her hand, serving food to a line of grateful, hungry men who were looking at her with the particular, devoted, slightly-in-love expression of men who had just eaten something that was dramatically better than what they had expected.
"This food is very good!" one said, his mouth full, his eyes wide.
"You are the best cook, Dara!" another said.
"You are our savior!" a third added, holding his bowl up like a trophy.
Dara chuckled.
The warm, pleased, slightly-flustered chuckle of a woman who was being praised for something she had learned from Viktor and was now receiving credit for.
"Oh, come on," she said, waving her ladle. "Aren’t you overselling yourselves?"
She was different.
Viktor noticed it immediately. The Dara who had been tied to a garden bench and fucked until she screamed was gone. This Dara was standing in a camp, feeding soldiers, holding a ladle like a weapon, and carrying herself with the particular, grounded confidence of a woman who had found her purpose and was executing it.
Her body was still marked. Still swollen. Her tits still strained against the brown dress, the nipples visible, the cleavage deep. Her ass was still wider, fuller, the fabric pulling tight across it. But she wore the body now with the easy, unselfconscious pride of a woman who had been claimed by a master and was no longer hiding.
"What a hot body you got," a voice said.
One of the soldiers — a young, stupid, brave-enough-to-be-dangerous man — reached out and spanked her ass.
The sound was sharp, the flat-palm crack of flesh on fabric on flesh echoing across the camp.
Dara’s eyes narrowed.
She lifted the hot spoon — the metal ladle still dripping with stew, the metal steaming — and brought it down on his hand.
SMACK!
"Ow!" The soldier yelped, pulling his hand back, cradling it. "Sorry, sorry! I was just trying! Come on!"
"You bastard," Dara said, her voice flat, her eyes hard.
The soldier looked toward Viktor.
Found the violet eyes watching him.
The man trembled.
The particular, instinctive, animal trembling of a man who had just been noticed by a predator and whose body — before his mind could form a reason — had decided to submit.
He lowered his head.
"I was kidding, man," he said, backing away. "Just joking."
He left.
Viktor watched him go.
Dara looked at Viktor.
"Here, sir," she said, holding out a bowl. "I have cooked for you."
Viktor took the bowl.
He looked at the food.
Stew — thick, rich, the meat tender, the vegetables soft, the broth deep and dark and savory. It was good. Genuinely, honestly good. Not his level — not the transcendent, bloodline-enhanced, system-assisted perfection he could produce — but good. Solid. The food of a woman who had learned from a master and was applying the lessons.
"Now this is delicious," he said.
He took a bite.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
"But you know, Dara," he said, his voice dropping, "I am kind of bored."
Dara tilted her head.
"What?" she said. "Really? Oh, do you want something else to eat?"
Viktor looked at her.
The violet eyes moved over her body — over the tight brown dress, the swollen tits, the stiff nipples, the wide hips, the thick thighs.
"You already know what I want to eat," he said.
Dara trembled.
The tremor was immediate, full-body, the involuntary response of a woman whose body had been trained to respond to his voice and his gaze and the particular, loaded quality of the word ’eat’ when spoken by a man who had eaten her cunt in a garden.
He sat on the fallen log.
The tree was at the edge of the clearing — far enough from the fires that the light was dim, the shadows deep, the sounds of the camp distant. Dara stood beside him, her body tense, her eyes darting between the camp and the tree line.
Viktor lifted her leg.
One hand under her knee, raising it, spreading her. She trembled, her balance shifting, her hand finding his shoulder for support. Her brown dress rode up — the fabric bunching at her hip, exposing her thigh, the thick, soft flesh of it bare and pale in the dim light.
Her panty was visible.
White cotton. Plain. The fabric pressed against her pussy, the outline of her hairy, swollen lips visible through the thin material. A dark spot was already forming — the wetness beginning, the involuntary, trained response of a body that knew what was coming.
"Sir, wait," she moaned. "Everyone is seeing. We will get caught. You can go around—"
Viktor looked toward the camp.
The men were eating. Talking. Hunched over bowls, their attention on the food and the conversation and the fire. No one was looking this way. No one was paying attention to the woman and the man at the edge of the tree line.
But he spread her leg wider.
Her thigh looked delicious. Thick, soft, the inner flesh pale and smooth, the texture of a woman who had been fucked so much that her body had softened, had opened, had become something that was always ready.
Her pussy — visible through the white panty — was slightly open. The lips, fucked so many times, had taken on a permanent, puffy separation, the hairy lips parted, the cotton fabric barely covering the dark, wet, swollen flesh beneath.
She was moaning.
Trying to speak.
"Someone would—" she started.
His hand moved.
He slapped her pussy.
PAH!
The flat-palm strike against her cunt — through the panty, the fabric cushioning nothing, the impact landing directly on her swollen, blood-engorged lips. The sensation was electric — the sharp, sudden, devastating contact of flesh on flesh through cotton, the pain and the pleasure arriving simultaneously.
Her panty dripped.
The wet spot spread — the dark, warm, gushing evidence of a body that had been slapped and had responded by producing a flood.
"Wait—" she gasped. "Someone would see—"
She was trembling. Shocked. Her body jerking, her leg shaking in his grip, her hands gripping his shoulder.
Viktor looked at her.
"Then should we change the place?" he asked.
The question was mild. Patient. The voice of a man offering options.
Dara’s eyes darted.
Between the camp. The tree line. His face. His hand between her legs.
"Yes," she whispered. "Somewhere else."
He pulled her.
Not gently. The firm, decisive, one-handed pull of a man who had heard ’yes’ and was now executing the logistics. He turned her — spinning her body, pressing her back against his chest, his back toward the camp.
She was facing away from him now. Her ass pressed against his crotch, her thick body in front of him, her back to the soldiers who were eating and talking twenty meters away.
"They cannot see us like that, right?" she moaned.
His hand found her tit.
The heavy, swollen, fucked-out flesh of her breast through the brown dress, his fingers sinking in, gripping, kneading with the idle, proprietary, one-handed attention of a man who was working.
His other hand went between her legs.
His fingers found her pussy — through the panty, pressing, rubbing, the wet fabric squelching under his fingers. He rubbed vigorously — not the slow, teasing, patient approach he used with Naro. The fast, efficient, get-it-done approach of a man who was in a hurry and wanted results.
She was cussing.
Juices.