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

Chapter 714: Chapter 713- A Priestess can’t feel... good

The ground came. Not hard. Not stone. Not the bone-shattering impact she had braced for. Soft. Green. Wet.

The grass, thick and tall and wild, received her body like a cushion. The impact drove the air from her lungs in a ’whump’ but nothing broke. Nothing cracked. She bounced. Once. Settled.

She lay there. Face up. Staring at the sky. The blue, cloudless, uncaring sky. Her chest heaved. Her heart hammered. Her body, the chubby, soft, priestess body, was sprawled across the grass like a discarded doll.

’Alive,’ she thought. The word was simple. Insufficient. ’I am alive. He threw me and I am alive.’

She turned her head. The pond, the small natural body of water fed by a underground spring, glittered twenty feet away. The trees, old and broad, formed a canopy that filtered the sunlight into dappled gold. The grass, wild and untended, grew waist-high. The area was secluded. Private. The kind of place that a priestess came to be alone with her prayers.

And then she saw the orphanage.

The building, stone and wood, sat three hundred feet away. The children, a dozen of them, played in the yard. Their voices, high and bright, carried across the distance. Laughing. Shouting. The sounds of childhood. Of innocence. Of the life she had dedicated herself to protecting.

"What are they doing here?" she whispered. The panic was immediate. The ’I am lying in the grass with my robe disheveled and my face covered in saliva three hundred feet from the orphanage’ panic. "No. No, no, no. Not here. Not here of all places—"

Her eyes widened.

His hand. His hand had grabbed the fabric of her robe. Not the hem. Not the collar. The fabric directly over her crotch. The bunch of cloth, the black material, was gathered in his fist. Along with it, the undergarment beneath. The panty. The thin cotton. The fabric that covered her pussy. All of it, bunched, pulled, twisted in his grip.

The material dug into her flesh. The elastic cut. The cotton, pulled taut, compressed her lips. The pressure, the ’the-fabric-is-crushing-my-pussy’ pressure, was sharp. Immediate.

"Stop—!!" she cried. Her hands found his wrist. Pulled. His hand didn’t move. "It hurts—!! You are pulling the wrong place—!! Stop it—!!"

Viktor stood over her. His wings were gone. Retracted. Absorbed. His white robe, torn from the wings, hung open. His face, looking down at her, was calm. The same calm. The same maddening, unbreakable, ’nothing-you-do-matters’ calm.

"Sit up, devil," he said. The word was wrong. He knew it was wrong. The ’I-am-calling-you-the-thing-I-am’ irony that was either a mistake or a deliberate provocation.

She couldn’t tell. She didn’t care. Her body was trembling too hard to analyze his word choices.

"Listen—" she started. The plea was automatic. The ’let-me-explain-why-this-is-wrong’ plea that she had been making since the bathroom. Since the garden. Since the first time his hand had found her body.

He didn’t listen.

His hand, the one not gripping her robe, found the hem of her skirt. The black fabric, the formal priestess garment, was pulled upward. Slowly. The cloth slid over her thighs. The pale skin, contrasted with the dark fabric, was revealed inch by inch. Her knees. Her thighs. The soft, full flesh that she kept hidden beneath layers of modesty.

"Stop—!!" she cried. Her hands, which had been on his wrist, moved. Tried to push her skirt back down. His hand didn’t stop. "Please—!! Someone will see—!! The children—!!"

His other hand found her neckline. The robe, already disheveled from the flight, was pulled down. The fabric, the black cloth, slid off her shoulders. The collar, the formal priestess collar, was displaced. The cleavage, the deep valley between her breasts, was revealed. The bra, the thick, practical, white cotton garment that she wore for support, was visible.

"No—!!" she screamed. The sound was loud. Too loud. She clapped her hand over her own mouth. The ’the-children-might-hear’ terror that made her muffle herself. "Mmph—!!"

He pulled the bra down.

The cups, the thick cotton, were hooked beneath his fingers. He pulled. The elastic stretched. The fabric, the supportive garment that she had worn every day for years, was yanked downward. The cups slid off her breasts. The mounds, freed, fell from the constraint. The heavy, full, pale flesh settled into its natural shape. Large. Round. The nipples, pink and stiff from the cold air and the arousal she couldn’t suppress, stood erect.

"Don’t—!!" she gasped through her fingers. "It is wrong—!! I am a priestess—!! You cannot—!! This is—!!"

His mouth found her nipple.

The contact, the warm wet suction, made her back arch off the grass. The motion was involuntary. Total. Her spine curved. Her belly pushed upward. Her legs, which had been kicking, went straight. Her hand, the one over her mouth, fell away as both hands found his hair.

Slurp—!!

The sound was obscene. The wet, rhythmic, ’slurp-slurp-slurp’ of a man sucking a woman’s breast filled the clearing. His cheeks hollowed. His tongue, broad and flat, pressed the nipple against the roof of his mouth. He sucked. Hard. The milk, the buff-carrying fluid that his system had activated, responded.

It flowed.

The warm, sweet, thin liquid filled his mouth. The taste, the priestess’s milk, was different from the others. Lighter. Sweeter. Carrying a faint, almost imperceptible divine quality that tingled on his tongue.

"AAAAHH—!!♡♡!!" Myra screamed. Her back, arched, trembled. Her hands, in his hair, gripped. Pulled. Not away. Closer. The ’drink-from-me’ pull that her body produced while her mind screamed in protest. "No—!!♡!! That is—!!♡!! Not—!!♡!! Right—!!♡!!"

His other hand was not idle. The hand that had been on her skirt continued its upward journey. The fabric, bunched at her hips, was pushed higher. Her thighs, full and pale, were exposed. The panty, the thin cotton that had been pulled and twisted, was visible. The wet spot, dark and spreading, covered the center.

His hand found the panty. Over the fabric. His palm pressed against her pussy. The heat, the wet, the ’she is soaked’ reality of her arousal, was transmitted through the cotton.

’She is wet,’ he thought. The satisfaction was primal. The ’my-pheromones-are-working’ satisfaction that the incubus in him craved. ’The priestess, the holy, chaste, pure priestess, is wet.’

He rubbed. The motion was circular. Firm. His palm, the rough skin, pressed the wet cotton against her swollen lips. The friction, the fabric grinding against her flesh, was intense. The nerve endings, concentrated and sensitive, fired. The signal, the pleasure-pain-pleasure signal, traveled through her body.

"NO—!!♡!! DON’T RUB—!!♡♡!! THERE—!!♡♡!!"

Slurp slurp slurp—!!

The dual assault. Mouth on breast. Hand on pussy. The two points of stimulation, the two sources of sensation, merged somewhere in her lower abdomen. The warmth, the ’something-is-building’ warmth, spread. Her hips, against her will, moved. Ground against his hand. The ’more’ movement that her body produced while her mind begged for less.

Then the pink energy appeared.

The glow, faint at first, emerged from Viktor’s skin. The incubus pheromones, concentrated and released in a controlled cloud, surrounded her. The pink mist, carrying the supernatural arousal agent, seeped into her pores. Her nostrils. Her mouth. The absorption was immediate. Total.

Her mind went white.

The fog, the pink, warm, ’everything-feels-good’ fog, descended over her thoughts. The training, the chastity vows, the years of discipline, the ’I-am-a-holy-woman’ identity, all of it became distant. Muffled. Like hearing a voice through water.

The thoughts were there but they couldn’t reach her. The pheromones, the supernatural arousal that bypassed conscious resistance, were stronger.

’What is happening to me?’ she thought. The question floated in the pink fog. Disconnected. ’My body feels... hot. Everything is hot. His mouth on my breast. His hand on my... oh goddess. His hand is on my...’

’It feels good.’

’It feels so good.’

’No. No. I am a priestess. I took vows. I am chaste. I am pure. I am—’