He looked at her. His gold-crimson eyes, steady, unblinking, carrying the particular patience of a predator watching prey struggle.
"Then I will just kill your son."
The words were flat. No inflection. No threat. Just statement.
Her blood went cold. The fire — the maternal fire, the one thing that had kept her fighting through the anal and the pussy and the sword-hilt and all of it — froze. Not extinguished. Frozen. Paralyzed by the understanding that he could do it. That he would do it. That the man standing before her, being serviced by two eighteen-year-old girls, had the power and the will to find her son and end his life.
Tears fell. Fresh. Hot. Running down her cum-stained cheeks.
"You bastard," she whispered. Her voice cracked on the word.
He was resting his hand on both sisters' heads. Holding their hair. His fingers tangled in dark locks, guiding Shen Ling's head deeper onto his cock — her throat bulging, her eyes rolling, the gagging sounds wet and rhythmic.
