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

Chapter 706: Chapter 705- Viktor’s Warning to Lower-Aristocracy

His finger found her clit.

The small, sensitive nub, hidden beneath its hood, was found. His fingertip, rough and calloused, pressed against it. The contact was direct. The ’something-is-touching-the-most-sensitive-part-of-my-body’ contact that sent a jolt through her system.

"You see," Viktor said. His voice was in her ear. The ’I-am-talking-to-you-while-touching-your-clit’ tone. "You are a fat little thing, aren’t you? Hairy pussy. Thick thighs. The kind of body that needs a good fuck."

The words were vulgar. Degrading. The ’I-am-describing-your-body-in-the-most-crude-terms-possible’ language that was designed to humiliate. To break. To make her feel small and dirty and ’wrong.’

"Please don’t say that," Myra whispered. The tears fell. Her violet eyes, squeezed shut, leaked. "Please."

His finger pressed. The clit, engorged and exposed, took the pressure. The nerve endings, concentrated and sensitive, fired. The signal, the ’pleasure-pain-pleasure’ signal, traveled through her body. Her back arched. Her hips bucked. The involuntary, ’my-body-is-responding’ movement that she couldn’t control.

He pinched.

The clit, the small nub of nerve tissue, was compressed between his thumb and forefinger. The pressure was sharp. Direct. The ’this-is-too-much’ signal that overloaded her nervous system.

Myra’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened. The scream built—

The piss came.

The yellow stream, warm and thin, erupted from her urethra. The fluid, released by the combination of the bladder pressure and the clit stimulation and the fear and the loss of control, arched outward. Hit the tree trunk. Ran down the bark. Pooled at the roots.

Her back arched forward. Her body, bent at the waist, pressed into the column. Her ass, the round cheek beneath the raised robe, pushed backward. Her thighs, pressed together, couldn’t stop the stream. The yellow liquid ran down her legs. Over her knees. Onto the grass.

"Ah—♡ ah—♡ ahh—♡"

The sounds that came from her mouth were not screams. Not words. The involuntary, ’my-body-is-releasing’ sounds that came from the relief and the shame and the ’I-am-pissing-in-a-garden-while-a-man-touches-my-clit’ devastation.

Viktor’s lips found her neck. He kissed. The skin, warm and soft, tasted of soap and fear. His lips, open and wet, sucked. Left a mark. The ’I-am-here’ mark that would be visible for days.

"Good woman," he murmured against her neck. The praise was obscene. The ’you-pissed-for-me’ praise that twisted the act into something intimate.

His hand, still on her clit, rubbed. The motion was circular. Slow. The finger, wet with her arousal, moved over the swollen nub. The sensation, the ’he-is-rubbing-my-clit-while-I-piss’ sensation, was overwhelming.

She came.

The orgasm, the first she had ever experienced, hit. The walls of her canal, the vaginal muscles, clenched. The fluid, the clear, thin arousal, squirted from her entrance. Mixed with the piss. The combined fluid, yellow and clear, ran down her legs.

"AAAAHH—!!♡♡♡!!"

The scream was loud. The sound, the ’I-am-cumming-while-pissing-in-a-garden’ scream, echoed through the garden. If anyone was nearby, they heard. The sound was unmistakable. The sound of a woman being destroyed.

Her body went limp. The orgasm, the release, the pissing, the humiliation, the fear, all of it combined into a single, ’I-cannot-move’ state. Her legs gave out. She would have fallen if his arm hadn’t been around her waist.

He held her. For a moment. His arm, around her waist, kept her upright. His hand, on her breast, released. His other hand, on her clit, released. The contact ended.

He lifted her skirt. The fabric, already raised, was pulled further. He used it. To clean his hand. The dark fabric, the priestess’s formal robe, wiped his fingers. The combination of her arousal and her piss, the wetness that covered his hand, was transferred to the black cloth. The stain, dark and wet, was visible on the fabric.

He stepped back. The distance, small but absolute, gave her space.

"Next time," Viktor said. His voice was casual. The ’this-is-a-warning’ tone. "I am going to fuck you if you dare disturb me."

He waved. The gesture was casual. The ’see-you-later’ wave of a man who had just sexually assaulted a priestess in a garden and was treating it as a minor inconvenience.

He walked away. Through the garden. Toward the main hall. His stride was steady. Unhurried. The ’I-have-places-to-be’ stride of a man with a schedule.

Behind him, Myra fell. Her knees hit the grass. Her body, the small, priestess body, curled into a ball. Her hands clasped her face. The tears, the snot, the drool, all of it, ran through her fingers.

"Goddess," she whispered. The prayer was broken. The ’please-forgive-me’ prayer of a woman who had been violated and had orgasmed from it. "Goddess, forgive me. Forgive me for this catastrophe."

The garden was empty. The priestess was alone. The tree, its bark wet with her piss, stood witness. The grass, soaked, held the evidence. The night, falling, covered everything in darkness.

The door of the main chamber opened.

The announcement came. Loud. Formal. The voice of a herald, trained to project across crowded halls.

"Lord Viktor Ktorian has arrived!!"

A ripple of silence fell over the grand hall like a physical weight. Crystal chandeliers glittered above a sea of silk gowns, tailored coats, and jeweled fans.

Nobles, merchants, and minor lords from half a dozen political factions had gathered under the pretense of a neutral summit—old alliances, new grudges, all circling the sudden rise of the Ktorian family. Whispers had already painted Viktor as an upstart boy, a fortunate heir playing at power. Eyes turned toward the entrance.

Viktor stepped inside.

He moved with unhurried grace, his tall frame cutting through the room like a blade. The black formal coat clung to his broad shoulders, the fabric stretched over a physique that spoke of more than noble breeding.

His presence filled the space—thick, heavy, almost tangible. The faint scent of his incubus pheromones drifted ahead of him, subtle at first, then inescapable. Women shifted unconsciously. Men straightened, some with instinctive wariness.

At the center of the gathering stood a cluster of the most arrogant: Lord Halvian of the Royal Factories, flanked by his retainers and several stern-faced military officers. A woman beside him—an aristocratic matron with an ornate ivory fan—lifted it to hide her smirk, her eyes glittering with disdain.

Viktor stopped a few paces into the hall. He simply stood there. The tension thickened. Conversations died. Every gaze locked onto him.

He sighed. A slow, uncaring breath. His eyes closed for a moment, as if the entire assembly bored him. The hall waited. The fan-woman’s smirk faltered. Soldiers at the edges gripped their weapons tighter, sensing something wrong in the air.

Then his eyes opened.

"Lower your gaze."

The words were spoken quietly. Almost conversational. But the power behind them was not.

An invisible pressure slammed down across the chamber like a collapsing ceiling. The air grew thick, suffocating. Knees buckled. Noblemen and merchants dropped first, silk and brocade crumpling as bodies hit the polished marble. The woman with the fan gasped, her legs giving out mid-step; she landed hard, the fan clattering away. Soldiers—trained, armored men—were driven to their knees with audible grunts, weapons clanging against stone. Even the proudest faction heads trembled, foreheads pressed toward the floor.

Shock rippled through them. Arrogant eyes that had moments ago measured him as prey now widened in raw terror. This was no boy. This was something else entirely.

Eriyana stood frozen at the far edge of the hall, half-hidden behind a column. Her hands clutched the fabric of her gown. She had watched it all—the pressure, the instant submission—and fear coiled tight in her chest. *Victor, you fool,* she thought. *These are not people you can simply crush. The Royal Factories, the old houses—they’ll remember this. They’ll plot.* She took a half-step forward, mouth opening to warn him.

He was already there.

Viktor appeared before her in a single stride, towering, calm. He took her hand gently, raising her knuckles to his lips. The kiss was soft, almost tender. Warm breath brushed her skin.

"You don’t have to worry, aunt," he murmured, loud enough for the entire hall to hear. "We don’t need these ants."

The words landed like another blow.

Moans and coughs erupted across the chamber. Bodies already pressed to the floor shook harder. Lord Halvian’s voice cracked first.

"Lord Victor—please! Forgive us! We meant no disrespect—"

"Mercy!" another noble gasped, forehead grinding against marble. "We are from the royal factories—our allegiance—"

"Silence."

Viktor’s single word cut through every plea. The pressure deepened. Several people whimpered, bodies flattening further. No one dared speak again.

He turned back to Evriana, still holding her hand. His voice dropped for her alone, though the pheromones in the air made every woman in the room shift and flush despite their fear.

"The Ktorian family stands alone from now on. If they wish to serve, they will do so on their knees. Permanently. If not..." He shrugged lightly, eyes flicking across the prostrated crowd with cold indifference. "They are replaceable."