Chapter 213

“Huuh, ngh, ...haa, hff! ...uhh, mmghh—”

Each time the massive cock churned his insides into a mess, every pleasure spot inside him was struck at once. His prostate, the stretched-open ring of his inner entrance, every nerve-clustered part was crushed under its weight.

Isaac’s lips suddenly tore away, and Siron’s throat was trapped in his huge hand. In that instant, Isaac became something else. His eyes filled with emptiness, and the grip around Siron’s neck began to tighten. At the same time, the shaft slid out until only the swollen head remained hooked inside, then scraped insistently upward along the upper wall, as though searching for a new passage.

At that moment, the sensitive, engorged ring of his inner entrance was pressed under the thick head, his flesh stretched painfully wide by the rough pressure.

Then the cock rammed in all at once, spearing straight through his entrance to strike the soft cervix at its end. The thunderbolt of shock and ecstasy made Siron thrash his head back and forth against the mattress, a strangled cry bursting from his throat.

“Hhhah, nghh, huuh! ...ugh, hff! ...hahh!”

Isaac anchored his lower body tightly, leaning his weight onto the hand choking Siron’s throat as he pounded mercilessly with his hips. The hammer-like jolts, short and brutal, combined with the lack of air left Siron gasping, his chest burning as though seared by fire.

Each sharp blow of the cockhead slammed against his cervix, bending it out of shape again and again. Viscous wetness streamed down his inner walls, coating them as his body convulsed harder than at any other kind of stimulation, welcoming the violent intrusion.

“Hhhht, ughh, nnnh, hff, haaah...!”

But unlike his body, which was blazing and ecstatic, Siron’s strength was fading, weakened under the onslaught of overwhelming pleasure.

Only when he was on the verge of losing consciousness did Isaac’s grip on his throat release. As if waking up to what he had done, his trembling hand withdrew. Siron gasped raggedly for a long time, air flooding back into his starved lungs, his dazed eyes lifted to Isaac, still reeling on the high of the brutal sex.

His mind was still scorched black with pleasure; he couldn’t collect his thoughts. Had it not been for Isaac’s rut—had his pheromones not steeped Siron’s body in chemicals of bliss—fear and shame might have driven him to beg for his life. But reality was beyond his grasp. His face, lost in intoxication, held only a weak smile and a look of ecstasy.

Isaac’s cock was still buried deep inside him, the lewdly clamped entrance drooling slick around it. Siron felt every detail: the spongy give of the swollen head pressed against his walls, the thick shaft ridged with vicious veins. He shivered at the tickling that made his fine hairs stand on end.

With delirious moans, Siron clenched down on the cock with his inner walls, wrapping it in a tight, hot grip, rocking his hips to rub at every sweet spot. On Isaac’s face, the clarity he had briefly regained was drowned once again in a murky flood of lust.

Without meaning to, Siron chased the pleasure harder, squeezing and releasing around him, while his free hand gripped his own cock and stroked. He barely touched himself before semen spurted in sharp bursts. The convulsing clamp of his inner walls, as if biting down on Isaac’s cock, tore the control from him. Isaac sank his teeth into Siron’s neck.

“Haah, fuck—”

A voice cracked the fever like a bucket of cold water thrown across their bodies. Siron froze, eyelids fluttering, as he sensed Baekgyeong’s presence, only a step away.

Turning his head, Siron barely managed to pull Isaac’s lips away. But Isaac didn’t care about another alpha’s arrival. Instead, when Siron’s arms weakly pushed against him, he pinned his wrists to the bed and changed the angle of his thrusts.

“Ahhh! Hahh! ...uhhghh! ...hhaa, st-stop...!”

His guts stretched in a new direction, the channel forced open so tight it clamped down on the shaft. Siron knew it was no time to be drowning in bliss, yet he hooked his legs tighter around Isaac’s waist, dragging him deeper.

“Ahh! ...hahhh, nghh, s-so good—”

The pounding grew rougher, harsher, and Siron felt he might black out. In the haze of rapture, he saw a huge syringe slam into Isaac’s neck. The plunger sank, emptying the barrel of violet liquid until the needle yanked out with a spray of blood. Droplets pattered onto Siron’s face, warm and red.

Delicious. He wanted to suck everything down. Anything Isaac gave him, he wanted to devour. Overcome with that craving, Siron bit at the spot near Isaac’s Adam’s apple, sucking the blood as he clutched his hair to keep him close.

“Separate. While I’m still telling you nicely.”

Baekgyeong’s grinding teeth spat the warning. Neither Isaac nor Siron obeyed. Isaac tore Siron’s mouth from his throat, but only to clutch his face between his hands and slam his hips harder, again and again.

“Haahh, fucking hell—”

In the next instant, Baekgyeong whipped a power cord around Isaac’s neck without warning. The force bent Isaac’s body backward, straining his throat.

“Haah, hhh, hh—”

Isaac choked out broken gasps, clawing at the wire around his neck. But even with all his strength, he couldn’t fight off Baekgyeong’s ambush from behind. He tried to drive an elbow into Baekgyeong and twist his body, but Siron’s legs were still locked tight around his waist, trapping him in place.

Isaac’s eyes bloodshot, his panting weakened to ragged wheezes. Gradually, the strength ebbed from his fingertips. Baekgyeong yanked the cord tighter, at the same time prying Siron’s bare legs off his hips.

At last, the cock buried inside Siron was wrenched out. Baekgyeong’s eyes seared with rage as he burned the image into himself: Isaac’s cock smeared with translucent slick, Siron’s splayed thighs, and the entrance clenching shut on emptiness. Overcome with shame, Siron tugged the blanket over himself and turned sideways.

Baekgyeong glared at him, consumed by fury, then turned away. Like dragging a corpse by the neck, he hauled Isaac’s body out of the room, his voice echoing with a chilling warning.

“You’ll pay with your body for spreading your legs like that.”

Three years and two months had passed since Joan Welch’s contact had been cut off.

Only then did Kelly Welch begin to accept her brother’s absence as a problem she could no longer ignore. The trigger came when a man calling himself “Ron” cautiously reached out through her social media, asking about Joan.

[lon11111]: Hello. You’re Joan Welch’s sister, right? I’m Ron, a friend of Joan’s. I haven’t been able to reach him and got worried, so I’m messaging you. Last Friday, Joan told me he was leaving for San Diego to see his sister, but I haven’t heard from him since. Did he arrive safely?

Joan coming to San Diego? Kelly had never heard of such a thing. And in truth, she had no desire for him to show up. When, years ago, Joan had declared he was leaving her—still a minor—behind to run off to Helso Tazu with his girlfriend, she had despaired. But now? Now, she felt only distance. Their fight seemed like something from a lifetime ago.

She was over twenty, had accepted a marriage proposal from her boyfriend, and was considering her future. She no longer needed any adults in her life—least of all Joan Welch, the useless junkie.

Yet after exchanging messages with “Ron,” ripples stirred in her stagnant world. She remembered: when their drunken father swung his fists and beat them, Joan had never once abandoned little Kelly to escape alone. The memory of that boy’s small body shielding her from the man’s blows came back to her again and again.

At last, she decided to search for him. She scoured San Diego for traces of her brother, but found nothing. In the end, determined to find him at any cost, she put off her own marriage and came to Helso Tazu.

“You say you haven’t had any contact for three years... then you can’t even determine the exact point of disappearance.”

Kelly sat carefully on the edge of the sofa. Warm tea, expensive snacks, even a gift tumbler with the missing-person campaign logo—everything the campaign center offered was kind, but her heart was heavy. In the counselor’s polite tone she still felt the sting of subtle reproach.

“We can guess the timing. A friend of Joan’s messaged me on PeopleBook.”

She showed the counselor a screenshot of the messages on her phone—the ones from the man named “Ron.” The counselor’s expression shifted subtly as he read each word aloud.

“The exchange was two months ago. Isn’t it possible Joan already left for San Diego then?”

Kelly’s face twisted with sorrow.

“My brother is still in Helso Tazu. If he’d come to San Diego, he would have found me. And I heard there are police records of him being detained for vagrancy.”

“Then perhaps instead of a missing-person campaign, you should be requesting a formal police investigation.”

The conversation hit a wall more quickly than she had feared. Kelly looked at the counselor’s kindly face, her expression crestfallen. She had already been to police stations and homeless shelters many times, had cross-checked rescue lists from the Langford Bridge collapse, even hospital admission records.

But the only record was of him being dropped near a shelter. Beyond that, his trail vanished completely. That was why, as a last resort, she had come here, to the missing-person campaign RE:Find.