Chapter 518: Chapter 517- Hartfield Treating His Bitch like One (3)
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind Viktor with a soft, final thud.
The banquet hall’s curated laughter — all that careful, practiced warmth — sealed itself away into a muffled, distant thing, like noise heard through water. The corridor swallowed him. Cooler here. The marble floor reflected nothing, too dark for that, and the candles had thinned to single wall-sconces spaced far enough apart that the shadows between them were real shadows, not decorative ones.
His boots made no sound.
He moved forward with the same measured pace he always moved — not slow, not hurried, the pace of a person who had long ago decided that urgency was something you felt on the inside and expressed nowhere else. The night air from somewhere ahead carried the smell of the garden below. Stone. Damp grass. Something floral, faint.
Then it reached him.
Not all at once. In pieces — the way bad things arrive when they don’t want to be recognized too quickly.
First: a sound that didn’t belong to a corridor.
Then: a voice he knew.
"P-please... not here... anyone could see..."
Viktor stopped.
Not a slow stop. An immediate one — the kind the body makes before the mind has finished processing, when something animal and old and entirely accurate says ’halt’ and the legs obey before the thought forms.
He knew that voice.
Warm. Unhurried. The voice that had said ’how are you, child’ not forty minutes ago with the particular softness of a woman who meant it without needing anything back from it.
The Viscountess.
He pressed back against the carved stone pillar at the corridor’s bend and did not breathe for a moment.
Then he looked.
The balcony was drenched in moonlight — the flat, indifferent kind that illuminates everything and flatters nothing.
She was bent forward over the stone railing, both hands gripping it, the knuckles pale against the carved edge. The green dress — that deep forest silk that had moved with her all evening, that had caught the candlelight and held it — had been torn open at the front. Not carefully. The way a man tears something when he is not thinking about the fabric.
The lace of her underthings was still on her, technically. It had been yanked sideways. Her breasts hung forward, heavy, swaying with each shaking breath — the left one freed completely from the cup, dark nipple stiffened from the cold night air and the shock of the position, the flesh full and quivering with every exhale.
The silk skirt had been shoved up around her hips and stayed there, bunched and useless, exposing the wide, soft expanse of her thighs and the dark, curly thatch of her pussy — hairy, full-lipped, glistening with the reluctant wet of a body that was betraying her whether she consented to it or not.
Her hair had fully come undone. The pins were gone. Dark strands fell loose around her face and stuck to her wet cheeks.
She was crying.
Not quietly. The kind of crying a woman does when she has already calculated that dignity is a luxury she cannot afford right now and something more urgent is required — wet, broken sounds, caught between sobs and the desperate effort to keep them small enough that they didn’t carry further than the balcony.
"N-no... husband, please... someone will see us out here..."
The Viscount stood behind her.
Viktor looked at him.
He had known, intellectually, that Heartfield was an ugly man in the way that mattered — the internal architecture of the ugly, the calculation and the smallness and the resentment that lived in his eyes. But standing there in the moonlight with his shirt half-open, hairy belly flopping pale and sweaty over his unbuckled belt, the man had stripped away even the pretense of the noble surface.
He looked like what he was.
His cock was out. Short. Thin. The kind of inadequacy that becomes cruelty in a man who cannot simply accept it — dark, matted hair at the base, the head already glistening with a smear that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with the mechanics of a body that had no business being pressed against another one.
The smell of him carried even to where Viktor stood.
Old sweat. Sourness. The particular foulness of a man who had drunk through the evening and not once thought to wash before deciding his wife owed him something.
"Look at you." Heartfield’s voice was low, controlled in the way of a man counting past his own rage. "Acting all high and mighty in front of that Count. Smiling at him like I wasn’t standing right there."
"I was only trying to help — please, the gardens are below us, the guests might hear—"
His hand cracked across her face.
’Pah.’
The sound was flat and clean and wrong in the quiet of the balcony.
Her head snapped sideways. A thin line of blood tracked from her nostril to her upper lip. She made a sound — short, swallowed — and bent further forward over the railing, both breasts swinging with the impact, the freed one slapping her arm and leaving a red bloom across the inner skin.
Viktor’s hand found the pillar.
His fingers pressed into the stone.
He did not move.
’She has handled this before.’ The thought came and he held onto it because the alternative — stepping out, intervening, bringing his ward status and the Count’s name into a husband’s private business on his daughter’s ceremony night — would do nothing except give Heartfield a new target and leave her with the aftermath of a scene that would follow her socially for years.
He knew this.
He hated knowing this.
"Suck it," Heartfield said. "Clean your husband’s dirty cock. Since you find it so easy to smile at other men tonight, you can put that mouth to better use."
"Please— it smells— I don’t want—"
He grabbed her by the hair.
The rest of her pins scattered. Dark strands cascaded fully loose as he forced her head down, pushing her face into his crotch, the wrinkled tangle of his pubic hair scratching against her nose.
Her gagging was immediate. Audible.
"Mmmghh—! Hnn— ugh—"
The sound of a woman with too much dignity for this being forced to have none of it — wet, broken, the back of her throat working against something she had no desire for, her free hand pressed flat against his thigh in the instinctive, useless gesture of a person trying to create distance from something that isn’t going anywhere.
’’How,’’ her mind ran, underneath the gagging, underneath the shame, ’’how does he still do this after all these years. In my own house. On Elena’s night. With guests twenty meters away.’’
Her pussy clenched.
She hated it.
Her body had years of conditioning that her self-respect had never managed to fully override — the traitorous warmth, the wet spreading through her hairy folds despite the tears, despite the stench, despite the particular humiliation of being face-fucked over a balcony railing by a man who smelled of three days’ worth of himself.
’Plap. Plap.’ His balls hit her chin in short, ugly rhythm.
"Glk— hnngh— mmfgh—"
He yanked her off by the hair again.
She came up gasping, blood and saliva on her lip, mascara tracking dark lines down her cheeks. Her breasts hung forward, swaying, nipples catching the moonlight.
"Over the railing," he said. "Hips up. Don’t make me say it twice."
"The gardens—" Her voice was almost nothing now. "Please, husband, someone will look up and—"
SMACK! SLAP!
"Kyaaaa!!! Aannn!!"
