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

Chapter 719: Chapter 718- The Charity of Blessings

Night fell.

The stable, dark except for the moonlight filtering through the cracks in the wood, was quiet. The sounds, the flesh-slapping and the screaming, had finally stopped. The marathon, the twelve-hour, ’from-morning-to-night’ marathon, was over.

Myra lay on the hay. Her body, the chubby, soft, priestess body, was limp. Her arms, at her sides, didn’t move. Her legs, spread, didn’t close.

Her pussy, the swollen, raw, thoroughly-fucked cunt, gaped. The cum, the thick white fluid, leaked from the entrance in slow, heavy streams.

The blood, the dried virgin blood, was crusted on her thighs. The hay, beneath her, was a swamp of fluids. Cum. Squirt. Milk. Sweat. The combination, the ’every-fluid-her-body-can-produce’ mixture, had created a small pond in the hay.

The horse, in its stall, had turned its back. The equine dignity, such as it was, had been offended.

Viktor stood. His body, the enhanced, infinite-stamina, incubus-regeneration body, was still ready. Not tired. Not spent. The marathon, the twelve hours, was a warmup.

The cock, twelve inches, hung between his thighs. Semi-hard. Ready to resume at will.

He looked at her. At the priestess. At the woman who had been, twelve hours ago, a chaste, pure, holy woman. The woman who was now lying in a stable, covered in cum and milk and hay, her pussy gaping and leaking, her body limp and used and his.

The mare, attracted by the salt, approached. The horse’s tongue, broad and rough, found Myra’s back. The animal, curious, licked. The sensation, the rough tongue on her skin, made the priestess twitch.

Viktor watched. His hand, resting on his limp cock, held the shaft. He slapped it against his palm. The ’thinking’ gesture.

His other hand, the free one, found her ass. The thick, full, round cheeks, presented by her limp, face-down position, were there. His finger, the fourth, pressed against her anus. The sphincter, the tight ring of muscle, resisted. Then yielded. The tip, one inch, entered.

Myra’s body twitched. The ’he-is-touching-my-ass’ sensation, after twelve hours of pussy fucking, was new. Different. The ’not-there’ protest that her body, even in its exhausted state, produced.

"Please," she whispered. The voice was not the screaming, protesting voice of the morning. It was the exhausted, broken, ’I-have-nothing-left’ voice. "Please do not do that. Not there. I cannot... I cannot feel my body."

Viktor chuckled. The sound was low. The ’you-cannot-feel-your-body’ amusement that was both sympathetic and predatory.

His hand, holding his limp cock, slapped it against her ass. The ’smack’ of flesh on flesh. The sound, the ’I-am-slapping-your-ass-with-my-cock’ sound, was quiet. Casual. The ’I-am-not-done-with-you’ gesture.

"Arrange an appointment for me," he said. His voice was conversational. The ’I-have-a-request’ tone. "With one of the merchant ladies. I kind of want a meeting."

Myra trembled. The ’he-wants-a-meeting-with-a-merchant-lady’ request, delivered after twelve hours of fucking, was so absurd, so disconnected from the reality of what had just happened, that her brain struggled to process it.

"Which... which merchant lady?" she whispered. The question came out automatically. The ’I-am-asking-for-clarification’ response of a woman who had been so thoroughly broken that she was complying without resistance.

"The Baroness," Viktor said. The word was casual. "The one in the red dress. With the fur. She looked at me funny."

Myra’s body went cold. The ’the-Baroness-Veilera’ recognition. The ’he-saw-her-smirk’ understanding. The ’he-wants-a-meeting-with-her’ implication that was not about trade agreements.

"I will," she whispered. The surrender was complete. The ’I-will-do-whatever-you-say’ submission that was not choice but survival. "I will arrange it. Please just... do not do that. Not there. I cannot..."

He withdrew his finger. The tip, which had been one inch inside her ass, emerged. The sphincter closed. The ’he-stopped’ relief was immense.

"From now on," Viktor said. His voice was quiet. Final. The ’this-is-how-it-will-be’ tone. "You are going to live in my mansion."

Myra trembled. The ’live-in-his-mansion’ directive, the ’you-are-mine-now’ declaration, was the end. The end of her independence. The end of her priesthood. The end of her life as she knew it.

"Where I would make you realize," he continued. His hand, on her ass, squeezed. The flesh deformed under his fingers. "Whom you so worship."

The words, the ’I-will-make-you-realize-who-you-worship’ words, carried a double meaning that hit her like a physical blow. The ’you-worship-the-Goddess-and-I-will-make-you-worship-me’ implication. The ’I-will-replace-your-Goddess’ assertion. The ’I-am-your-deity-now’ claim.

Her pussy, the raw, overused, thoroughly-fucked pussy, squirted. The fluid, thin and clear, erupted from her entrance. The orgasm, the final, ’my-body-responds-to-his-words’ orgasm, hit without touch. The ’he-just-told-me-I-am-his-and-my-pussy-came’ reaction that was the ultimate betrayal of everything she had been.

"AAAAHH—!!♡♡♡!!"

Her body convulsed. The last orgasm, the weakest but somehow the most devastating, shook her. The hay, beneath her, absorbed the fluid. The horse, in its stall, snorted. The moon, through the cracks, shone.

She lay there. Limp. Broken. His. The priestess who had served the Goddess. The woman who had taken vows of chastity. The person who had healed the sick and blessed the faithful and taught children to pray. All of it. Gone. Replaced by the ’I-am-his’ reality that her body had accepted and her mind was learning to accept.

The stable was quiet. The night was dark. The priestess lay in the hay and leaked his cum and knew, with the certainty of a woman whose body had betrayed her completely, that she would never leave him.

"Sigh... let’s hold a charity tommorow Priestess." Viktor finally stretched his back. As he sat, his system window popped up, his mark forming. As he laid him, pulling the sister against his chest, hugging her. As he closed his eyes, having his cock pressed against her thighs, still holding her steady. As he kissed her head, exhaustion loling them in sleep.

[ 100x Rebate from the Priestess Maira Activates. ]

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The morning line stretched from the church tent all the way past the baker’s shop on Halden Street.

Three hundred people. Maybe more. The queue wound through the cobblestone roads like a river of tired, hopeful bodies. Farmers with bent backs. Mothers carrying infants with fevers. Old men with canes and clouded eyes. Young women with bandaged hands from the textile mills. All of them. Standing. Waiting. Shuffling forward one step at a time as the line crept toward the white canvas tent erected overnight in the town square.

The mood was strange. Not somber. Not desperate. Something closer to excited disbelief. Because yesterday, the sky had split open. Golden light had fallen. People had been healed. Not by the priestess’s hands. Not by the Paladin’s prayers. By something else. Someone who descended from above like the Goddess herself had reached down and touched the town.

"Did you see it?" a woman in a flour-dusted apron whispered to her neighbor. Her voice was hushed, reverent, the kind of voice people use in temples. "The light. It came from nowhere."

"I saw it," the neighbor said. A thin man with a carpenter’s calluses. "My back. The pain. Twenty years. Gone. Just gone. Like someone took it out of me."

"The priestess," another voice joined. A older woman, her grey hair wrapped in a scarf. "The priestess was taken by the angel. He said he would stuff her with holy power."

The word ’stuff’ hung in the air. The older woman said it with absolute sincerity. The flour-dusted woman nodded. The carpenter scratched his head.

"Stuffing her," he repeated. "Like filling a vessel with divine energy."

"Indeed," the older woman said. "The priestess needed to receive the holy power. The angel said so himself. He would bestow the holy water upon her. Stuff her with the energy she needs."