My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 426: Daphne’s Request (r-18)

Chapter 426: Daphne’s Request (r-18)

Then he slammed forward again—fast, shallow pumps now, never going deeper than those first two inches, pistoning relentlessly against her entrance, battering her clit with every short, vicious stroke.

Maddie’s on-screen body jerked. Her thighs shook. Her mouth opened in a raw, animal scream that cracked into high, broken wails.

Her cunt visibly clenched—inner walls spasming, trying to drag him deeper, failing, forced to take the teasing punishment instead.

A fresh gush of her own slick sprayed out around his cock with every rapid thrust, coating his shaft, dripping down her ass, soaking the sheets. Her whole body seized—back arching off the bed, toes curling, fingers clawing at the mattress—and she came hard, screaming his name like a curse, hips bucking wildly against the shallow, merciless fucking.

Daphne’s breath stopped watching her daughter getting what she was missing in her own motherly pussy.

Then her hand answered.

She added the second finger—index joining middle—shoving both deep in one brutal plunge. Her cunt stretched around them, walls fluttering wildly, sucking greedily at the new fullness. Thick ropes of clear slick immediately coated both digits, running in hot streams down her wrist, pooling in the crease where thigh met groin.

She fucked herself faster now—matching the rhythm on screen—short, sharp, punishing strokes, never pulling out more than halfway, slamming back in to grind against that swollen front wall. The squelching turned filthy, loud, wet slaps echoing off the bedroom walls.

Her outer lips puffed even more, dark and glossy, framing the stretched pink ring that swallowed her fingers over and over. Each withdrawal showed the glistening tunnel inside of her pussy—shiny, ridged, clenching desperately—before the fingers rammed home again, curling hard, rubbing that spot with ruthless circles.

Her other hand abandoned her breast.

It shot straight to her clit which had been throbbing but now it got the attention.

There was no teasing.

She pinched the swollen nub

between thumb and forefinger—hard—then rubbed fast, rough, side-to-side friction that made her vision tunnel.

Her clit throbbed under the assault, huge and red, slick sliding everywhere, the hood pulled back completely so every pass dragged raw nerve against raw nerve.

Her hips jerked off the bed. Thighs trembling. Silk bottoms shoved down to her knees now, soaked crotch clinging to one thigh, exposing everything: the fat, parted outer lips, the darker inner folds peeled wide, the hungry pink mouth stretched around two pumping fingers, creamy arousal foaming at the entrance, dripping in thick strands.

She fucked herself harder—faster—matching Phei’s shallow, brutal pace on screen. Fingers pistoning, curling, grinding. Clit rubbed raw and frantic.

Breaths coming in harsh, animal pants. Mouth wide, tongue lolling, drool collecting at the corner.

She held the edge—shaking, sweating, cunt spasming violently around her fingers, clit pulsing under her brutal rubbing—locked in the same screaming, denied torment Maddie was riding on the screen.

Maddie watched every second.

She came quietly.

No theatrical cry. No theatrical arch.

Just a sharp, involuntary inhale that lifted her shoulders half an inch off the pillows.

Jaw clenched tight enough that the muscle flickered under her cheek. Thighs snapped together around her still-buried fingers, trapping them deep as her cunt spasmed in long, rolling waves—walls rippling, clenching, milking the two digits like they owed her four years of back pay.

A fresh flood of slick pulsed out around her knuckles, hot and thick, soaking the already-drenched silk and trickling in slow rivulets down the crease of her ass to darken the sheets beneath her.

Then—control.

A long, measured exhale through her nose, lips sealed, the exact same breath she’d perfected over twenty years of coming on her fingers in crowded restaurants, boardrooms, backseats of limos, without so much as a tremor anyone else could clock.

The orgasm rolled

through her in disciplined silence, leaving her trembling but composed, fingers still curled inside herself, thumb still pressed flat against her overstimulated clit, letting the aftershocks ripple without betraying her.

The video kept playing.

Phei was still there on the screen—slowing now, drawing out Sierra’s afterglow with lazy, deep strokes while Maddie’s recorded body twitched through the final tremors beside them.

Daphne kept watching.

Eyes glassy but focused.

Hand still between her thighs, fingers still buried to the second knuckles, occasionally giving a small, lazy curl just to feel the oversensitive walls flutter in protest.

If Phei ever wondered why Maddie always insisted—always, without exception, like it was a fucking sacrament—on syncing everything he shared to her from the computer his computer from her personal phone to her tablet at home… the photos, the videos, the encrypted “Tax Documents 2026” folder that contained enough felony-grade material to ruin three dynasties… now he’d know.

If he were here that is.

Which he wasn’t.

Which was honestly for the best, because the sight of Daphne Whitmore—silk loungewear rucked down to her knees, legs spread, two fingers still glistening inside her swollen cunt, coming in perfect silence while her daughter sat cross-legged two feet away crunching crisps and occasionally murmuring “nice angle” or “he does that thing with his thumb next”—

—would have required Phei to load approximately eleven new emotions into a processor already red-lining on lust, guilt, confusion, possessiveness, terror, arousal, pride, horror, hunger, responsibility, and the sudden, bone-deep awareness that he’d accidentally become the center of a mother-daughter feedback loop that could end civilizations.

The video ended. Black screen.

Soft chime of the file closing.

Daphne’s hand withdrew slowly. Fingers emerged shining, coated in thick, pearlescent strings that stretched and snapped as she pulled free. She brought them to her mouth without thinking—tasted herself once, absently, like someone checking the seasoning on soup—then wiped them on the silk thigh of her loungewear.

Picked up her wine.

Sipped.

Set it down.

Three seconds of absolute silence.

Only the faint rustle of Maddie eating another crisp.

“Maddie.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I—”

“Meet him?”

Daphne’s mouth closed. She nodded. Once. Sharp. The nod of a woman whose entire question had been anticipated, intercepted mid-flight, completed, and handed back to her on a silver platter before the first word even left her tongue.

The nod of a mother suddenly realizing her daughter had been sitting on this exact moment for weeks, maybe months, waiting for permission to be asked.

Maddie’s face did something.

It was the thoughtful expression. The serious one. Chin resting in hand, eyes slightly narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line—the face of a girl actually weighing consequences, measuring risks, calculating implications with something approaching adult gravity.

Which was fucking hilarious.

Because every single person who had ever spent more than five minutes inside the blast radius of Maddie Whitmore’s personality knew the truth: Maddie didn’t do thinking.

Maddie ran on pure instinct, terminal velocity chaos, and the unshakable belief that whatever her gut screamed in the first 1.8 seconds was gospel and the universe could retroactively justify it later.

But she wore the face anyway.

Held it for dramatic answers.

Let the silence stretch until it teetered on the edge of uncomfortable, because even chaos demons understood the value of dramatic timing.

“On one condition,” she said finally.

Daphne waited.