100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 705: Chapter 704- Priestess Overwhelmed too Much

The priestess’s eyes moved from the cum-leaking pussy to the face. To the side profile of the woman on the floor. The face, slack-jawed and drooling, was recognizable.

Her eyes widened. The ’that-is-the-commandander-of-the-night-order’ recognition hit like a physical blow. The ’the-woman-on-the-floor-with-cum-leaking-from-her-pussy-is-Berenga’ realization. The ’a-high-ranking-military-officer-is-being-fucked-by-a-demon-in-a-bathroom’ understanding.

Myra looked back at Viktor. At his cock, pressed against her. At his face, smirking. At his eyes, waiting.

"Please," she whispered through his palm. "I would not say. Anyone. I would not tell."

Myra’s violet eyes moved. Past his shoulder. Past his body. To the scene behind him. To Berenga.

The commander had fallen. Her body, limp, had slid down the wall. Her face was on the marble floor. Her ass was in the air. The thick, round cheeks, still raised, presented her pussy. The shaved, swollen, freshly-fucked cunt, gaped. The entrance, stretched by twelve inches, was open. The cum, white and thick, leaked from the opening in slow, heavy streams. The piss, yellow and warm, ran down her thighs. The combination of fluids, the obscene mixture of sex and loss of control, pooled beneath her.

Viktor leaned. His face descended toward her ear. The movement brought his cock harder against her pussy. The shaft, between the fabric, pressed into her slit. The lips, through the robe and the undergarment beneath, compressed around the outline of his shaft. The heat, the wetness, the ’I-can-feel-his-cock-through-my-clothes’ sensation, made her thighs clench.

His lips found her ear. His breath was warm.

"If you did," he whispered. The words were soft. Intimate. The ’I-am-telling-you-a-secret’ whisper that was more terrifying than any shout. "I would fuck you in front of your orphanage children."

Myra’s whole body went cold.

The temperature drop was visible. The blood drained from her face. The pale skin became white. Her violet eyes, already wide, became empty. The ’he-knows-about-the-orphanage’ realization. The ’he-knows-about-the-children’ understanding. The ’he-would-do-that’ terror.

Her body trembled. Not the aroused trembling of the women he had fucked. The cold, ’this-man-is-a-monster’ trembling of a woman who had just been threatened in the most personal, most devastating way possible.

She shook her head. Violently. The ’no-no-no-I-will-not-tell’ motion that was both promise and plea.

Viktor pulled back. His hand left her mouth. His cock, still pressed against her, shifted. He reached down. Pulled up his pants. The fabric, buttoned, zipped, hid his cock. The twelve inches, still hard, created a visible bulge in his trousers. The wetness, the cum and piss and squirt that covered the fabric, was visible as a dark stain.

He stepped back. The distance, small but absolute, gave Myra room to breathe. Her body, released from the pressure, sagged against the wall. Her legs, weak, barely held her.

Viktor looked at her. At the trembling priestess. At the violet eyes, wet with tears. At the pale face, white with fear. At the black robe, disheveled from being pressed against the wall. At her hands, shaking, clutching the silver pendant.

"Come," he said. The word was a command. Not harsh. Not loud. The ’you-are-coming-with-me’ tone that expected obedience.

He walked. Out of the bathroom. Into the corridor. Myra followed. Not by choice. Her body, responding to the tone, to the presence, to the sheer ’I-cannot-disobey’ pressure of his incubus pheromones, moved. Her feet stepped. Her legs walked. Her body, trembling and humiliated, followed the man who had just threatened to fuck her in front of children.

His hand found her ass. Over the robe. His palm cupped the cheek. The fabric, thin, transmitted the heat of his hand. The flesh beneath, soft and round, deformed under his grip. She flinched. The ’his-hand-is-on-my-ass’ flinch that she couldn’t suppress.

"You need to be aware," Viktor said. His voice was conversational. The ’I-am-giving-you-advice’ tone. "Do not disturb a couple. Don’t you have manners?"

Myra’s face burned. The blush, the humiliation blush, spread from her cheeks to her neck. The ’I-walked-in-on-people-having-sex-and-I-am-being-scolded’ embarrassment that was somehow worse than the threat.

"I—I apologize," she whispered. Her voice was thin. Barely audible. "It was my mistake. I should have not come. I should have knocked. I—"

"You have to get punished, right?" Viktor said. The question was casual. The ’this-is-the-natural-consequence’ tone.

"No," Myra said. The word came out fast. Desperate. "No, I don’t. I was just trying to—"

"By the way," Viktor interrupted. His voice carried the same conversational tone. The ’I-just-thought-of-something’ tone. "Weren’t you in the bathroom to take a pee?"

Myra’s body stiffened. The ’how-did-he-know’ stiffness. The ’he-can-smell-it’ realization. Her violet eyes, already wet, filled further. Her thighs pressed together. The ’I-do-need-to-pee’ pressure in her lower abdomen, which she had been ignoring, which she had been suppressing through the fear and the humiliation, became acute.

"No," she said. The denial was immediate. Automatic. "I don’t need to."

Viktor’s hand moved. From her ass. To her belly. Over the robe. Down. To her crotch. His palm pressed against her lower abdomen. The pressure, the external force against her bladder, was direct.

Myra cried out. "Wait, no—!"

The pressure hit. The ’he-is-pressing-on-my-bladder’ sensation. The ’I-really-do-need-to-pee’ urgency. The combination, the external pressure and the internal need, was overwhelming. Her body, already weak from fear, couldn’t hold.

He steered her. Through the corridor. Through a side door. Into the garden area. The columned garden, the landscaped portion of the Ktorian mansion’s grounds, was empty. The trees, the ornamental bushes, the stone columns covered in climbing vines, provided cover. Seclusion. The evening light, dimming, cast shadows.

He pressed her into a corner. The stone column against her back. The bushes on either side. The tree, its trunk wide enough to block the view from the main garden, provided the final screen.

"No one is seeing," Viktor said. His voice was calm. Reassuring. The ’this-is-fine’ tone that was not fine at all. "You can take a piss here."

Myra’s violet eyes filled. The tears spilled over. Ran down her cheeks.

"No," she whispered. "No, no, no. Please. Not here. Not like this."

His hand found the hem of her robe. The black fabric, the formal priestess garment, was pulled upward. The cloth, sliding over her thighs, revealed pale skin. Her legs, thin and pale, were exposed. The robe rose higher. Past her knees. Past her thighs. To her hips.

Her undergarment. White cotton. Simple. The fabric, modest and practical, covered her. The dark hair, visible through the thin white fabric, was thick. Untrimmed. The curls, dark and natural, pressed against the cotton.

Viktor reached around. From behind. His arm wrapped around her waist. His hand, large and warm, found her breast. Over the robe. He groped. The modest mound, soft and small, deformed under his palm. The nipple, stiff through the fabric and the robe, pressed against his hand.

Myra’s hands went to his. To pull it away. To protect herself. The gesture, the ’don’t-touch-me-there’ reflex, was useless. His hand didn’t move. Her hands, his with one of his, held her in place.

His other hand found her panty. The waistband. His fingers hooked. Pulled. The elastic stretched. The fabric, pulled sideways, displaced. Her panty, the white cotton, was tucked aside. The fabric, bunched, cut into her left thigh.

Her pussy was exposed.

The dark hair, thick and untrimmed, covered her mound. The curls, dark and coarse, framed the pink flesh within. The lips, swollen from the prolonged arousal she had been suppressing, were visible. Wet. The thin sheen of moisture, the body’s involuntary response to the pheromones and the proximity and the fear, glistened on the pink flesh.

Myra struggled. Her body twisted. Her hips turned. Her hands, freed from holding his, pushed at his arm. The resistance was futile. His arm, around her waist, held her. His hand, on her breast, held her. His body, behind her, blocked escape.

"Stop," she whispered. The word was cracked. Broken. "Please stop."