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

Chapter 720: Chapter 719- Priestess loosing her Mind

"Such dedication," the flour-dusted woman breathed. Her hand went to her chest. "To be taken by an angel and filled with divine power for our sake. What a pious priestess."

"A true servant of the Goddess," the carpenter agreed.

They shuffled forward. The line moved. One person at a time entered the tent. Each came out walking straighter, breathing easier, their ailments cured. The gratitude on their faces was genuine. The healing was real. Whatever was happening inside that tent, the results were undeniable.

"She must be in pain," a young mother said, bouncing her baby on her hip. The infant’s cough had been keeping them both awake for weeks. "I heard the divine energy is so overwhelming that her face turns red. She can barely control it."

"Truly?" the flour-dusted woman asked.

"My sister went in this morning," the young mother continued, leaning closer. "She said the priestess was making sounds. Like she was struggling. Groaning. The power flowing through her is so intense that she moans from the strain."

"Poor thing," the older woman said. Her hand pressed against her heart. "To suffer such agony for our sake."

"Saints always suffer," the carpenter said. "That is what makes them saints."

They nodded. Murmured agreement. Shuffled forward.

Inside the tent, Myra was making sounds.

The tent was divided. A wooden partition, hastily constructed from salvaged planks, split the space down the middle. The front half, visible to the public, held a desk, a chair, and a small altar with a silver sun emblem. Clean. Holy. Professional.

The back half was hidden. Behind the partition. In the shadows.

Myra stood at the desk. Her hands, flat on the wooden surface, supported her weight. Her arms were shaking. Her black robe was on. The front was buttoned. The collar was high. From the front, she looked like a priestess. Composed. Serene. Serving the faithful.

From the back, the wooden partition concealed everything below her waist. The desk, positioned against the partition, hid her lower body from view. The people who entered, who sat in the chair opposite her, who received her blessing, saw only the upper half. The face. The hands. The silver sun on her chest.

They did not see what was behind the wall.

Viktor stood behind her. His pants were around his thighs. His cock, twelve inches, was buried in her pussy. The shaft, thick and veined, was sheathed to the hilt. His hands, large and calloused, gripped her hips. His fingers dug into the flesh through the fabric of her raised skirt. Her panties, white cotton, were pulled aside. The dark hair, wet and matted, framed the junction where their bodies met.

He was fucking her.

PAH. PAH. PAH.

The sound was muffled. The wooden partition, the thick canvas of the tent, the noise of the crowd outside, all of it masked the rhythmic slapping. But the vibration traveled. Through the desk. Through the floor. Through Myra’s body, which was conducting every thrust directly into her hands, which were conducting it into the wooden surface, which was conducting it into the floor that the people in line were standing on.

"Please be seated," Myra said. Her voice was steady. Barely. The words came out through clenched teeth as a thrust drove the air from her lungs. "I will bless you."

The woman sitting across from her was middle-aged. A baker’s wife, from the flour on her sleeves. Her right hand, wrapped in a bandage, rested on the desk. A burn. From the oven.

Myra raised her hand. The divine energy, the holy light that she could still channel despite everything, gathered in her palm. The golden glow, warm and pure, was genuine. The Goddess’s power. The power that Viktor, through Helena’s divine sovereignty connection, was siphoning directly from the gratitude of every person healed.

The connection was invisible. Divine. The gratitude of the healed, the faith of the faithful, the relief of the cured. All of it flowed through Myra’s blessing, through the divine channel, and into Viktor. Every ’thank you’ was energy. Every ’bless you, priestess’ was power. Every tear of gratitude was a drop of strength that fed his divine authority.

He fucked her harder.

PAH. PAH. PAAH.

"Nnh—" Myra’s breath hitched. The thrust, deeper than the others, hit her cervix. The divine light in her palm flickered. She steadied it. Held it. Maintained. "Hold out your hand."

The baker’s wife extended her injured hand. Myra’s glowing palm descended. The light, warm and healing, enveloped the bandage. The tissue beneath, burned and raw, regenerated. The skin, blistered and peeling, smoothed. The pain vanished.

"Oh," the baker’s wife breathed. Her eyes went wide. "Oh, Goddess. The pain. It’s gone."

PAH. PAH. PAH.

Myra’s face was red. Crimson. The blush, which the crowd outside attributed to divine strain, was actually the result of a twelve-inch cock rearranging her internal organs. Her tongue, which she kept biting to suppress her moans, was swollen from the constant pressure. Her eyes, which she kept focused on the patient with the serenity of a saint, were wet with tears that the crowd interpreted as pious emotion.

"Your healing is done," Myra said. Her voice cracked on the last word as Viktor drove particularly deep. "Go in peace. The Goddess blesses you."

SMACK.

His palm hit her ass. The slap, delivered through her raised skirt, was loud enough to be audible. Myra flinched. Her hand, still glowing, jerked. The light flickered.

"Did you hear that?" the baker’s wife asked, looking around. "A sound."

"The divine energy," Myra said, her voice tight, strained, each syllable fought for. "It is... overwhelming. Sometimes the power... surges. It causes me... discomfort."

The baker’s wife’s face softened. Pity. Concern. The ’this-poor-woman-is-suffering-for-our-sake’ sympathy that made her reach across the desk and squeeze Myra’s hand.

"You are so brave, priestess," she said. "Enduring this for us. May the Goddess reward your dedication."

Myra smiled. The smile was a rictus. A mask stretched over a face that was being fucked into oblivion from behind. "She does," she whispered. "Every moment."

The baker’s wife left. The next person entered. A farmer with a bad knee. He sat. Extended his leg. Myra placed her hand on the joint. The divine light flowed. The cartilage regenerated. The farmer wept with gratitude.

Behind the wall, Viktor picked up the pace.

PAH PAH PAH PAAH.

Myra’s hands, on the desk, were white-knuckled. Her knees, locked, were trembling. Her internal monologue was a cascade of fragmented thoughts that crumbled with each thrust.

’Too hard. I cannot control my composure. People are looking at me. I need to maintain my face. This is destroying my dignity. My robes. My vows. Everything I built. Everything I trained for. And I—’

PAAH.

"Ah—♡" The moan escaped. Small. Barely audible. Myra slapped her hand over her mouth. The farmer, whose knee was being healed, looked up.

"Are you alright, priestess?"

"The power," Myra gasped, her voice muffled by her palm. "It surges. Through me. I cannot— hold on—"

She removed her hand. Placed it back on the knee. The light flowed. The healing continued. Viktor’s hips, behind the wall, drove with mechanical precision. The sound of flesh meeting flesh, muffled by wood and canvas, was a constant rhythm beneath the murmurs of the faithful.

’Yet I like it,’ Myra thought. The realization, which had been building since yesterday, since the garden, since the stable, crystallized in her mind. ’I like being fucked while healing. I like the secrecy. I like that they don’t know. I like that every blessing I give is powered by his cock inside me. I am corrupted. I am fallen. I am his.’

PAH. PAH. PAH.

"Hnn—♡"