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

Chapter 721: Chapter 720 - The Priestess of Viktor Ktorian

Another moan. Louder. The farmer’s eyes widened.

"The divine energy," an older woman in line, who had been listening from outside, explained to her neighbor. "It makes her groan. The strain of channeling so much holy power."

"Poor priestess," the neighbor murmured. "Such agony."

"Mercy," someone in the tent whispered. "Priestess, have mercy on yourself. Rest."

"I am fine," Myra said. Her voice was a lie. Her body, impaled on twelve inches, was singing a different truth. "Please. Hold out your hand. I will bless you."

The line continued.

By noon, Myra had healed ninety-three people. She had orgasmed six times. Her pussy, stretched and raw, was filled with three loads of cum that had nowhere to go, trapped by Viktor’s shaft plugging her entrance.

Her panties, pulled aside since morning, were destroyed. The cotton, soaked with cum and arousal and squirt, was a rag.

Her thighs, behind the partition, were slick with fluids that had been running down her legs for hours. Her boots, standing in a small puddle of her own making, squelched when she shifted her weight.

She had pissed herself twice. Once at hour two, when Viktor’s tail had joined his cock in a dual assault that made her lose all control. The yellow fluid, warm and thin, had run down her legs and pooled at her feet. The second time at hour four, when a particularly deep thrust had hit her bladder through her vaginal wall. The puddle had grown.

The people in line, oblivious, continued to gossip.

"She must be really receiving the divine power," a blacksmith said, flexing his newly healed shoulder. "She’s been in there for hours. Without rest."

"The angel is probably still with her," his wife said. "Stuffing her with the holy energy. It takes time to fill a vessel with that much divine power."

"Indeed," the blacksmith agreed. "Stuffing. Filling. For hours. The priestess is enduring so much."

"You know what I think?" a young man, barely twenty, chimed in. He was a laborer, his broken arm freshly healed. "I think the priestess is enjoying it. The divine energy. The blessing. She looked flushed. Happy. Not in pain."

"She makes sounds," the blacksmith’s wife said, her voice dropping. "I heard her. Moaning. Like she was— well, you know."

The adults exchanged looks. The kind of looks that married couples exchange when they both know exactly what the sounds remind them of but are too proper to say it.

"She is a priestess," the older woman from earlier said firmly. "The sounds are from the divine energy. Nothing more."

"Of course," everyone agreed. "Of course. Nothing more."

The line shuffled forward.

By late afternoon, the flow of patients had slowed. The line, which had stretched past the baker’s shop, now held only a dozen people. The sun, orange and low, cast long shadows across the square.

Inside the tent, Myra was hanging. Her body, limp, was draped over the desk. Her face, pressed against the wood, was wet with tears and drool. Her hands, hanging at her sides, were motionless. Her tongue, extended, touched the desk surface. Her eyes, half-lidded and glazed, saw nothing.

Viktor was still inside her. Softening. The last load, the fifth of the day, was deposited. The cum, overflowing, ran down her thighs in thick, slow streams. Her pussy, stretched and swollen, gaped around his shaft. The entrance, the pink flesh, was raw and red and leaking.

Her ass, behind the partition, bore the marks of his palms. Red. Hand-shaped. The imprints of six hours of slapping that had left her cheeks warm and sore.

SMACK.

One last slap. Myra flinched. The moan that came from her throat was not a moan anymore. It was a whimper. The ’I-have-nothing-left’ sound of a woman who had been fucked continuously for six hours while healing ninety-three people.

"Priestess," a voice came from outside the tent. Female. Concerned. "Priestess Myra? Are you alright? We haven’t seen anyone come out for a while."

Myra’s body twitched. The voice, cutting through the fog of her post-orgasmic haze, triggered something. Not survival. Not dignity. Habit. The priestess habit, trained into her over years of service, responded to the concern of the faithful even when her mind was destroyed.

"One moment," she called. Her voice was ruined. Hoarse. The sound of a throat that had been screaming for hours. She cleared it. Swallowed. Tried again. "One moment. The divine energy is... settling."

Viktor pulled out. The cock emerged with a wet, obscene sound. The cum, freed from its plug, gushed. The thick, white fluid poured from her entrance and joined the puddle at her feet. Myra gasped. The sudden emptiness, the void inside her, was almost worse than the fullness.

Her skirt fell. The black fabric, covering her lower body, hid the destruction beneath. She straightened her collar. Adjusted her bra, which had been pulled down, the cups displaced, her nipples exposed beneath the loose fabric. She buttoned the top. Smoothed her hair. Wiped her face on her sleeve.

She looked, to the outside world, like a priestess who had been channeling divine energy all day. Flushed. Tired. But composed.

The tent flap opened. Myra stepped out. The sunlight hit her face. She squinted. The dozen remaining people in line looked at her with concern and reverence.

"Priestess," an older man said, bowing. "You look exhausted. Was the angel... generous with the holy power today?"

Myra’s eye twitched. The word ’generous’ took on a meaning in her mind that the old man did not intend.

"Indeed," she said. Her voice was controlled. The priestess mask, rebuilt from the shards of her dignity, held. "The divine energy was... abundant. I am full of it."

The crowd murmured. Nodded. The ’she-is-full-of-divine-energy’ interpretation that was so far from the truth and yet, in its own way, so accurate.

"Tomorrow," Myra continued, "the healing will continue. Please come early. The angel’s blessing lasts."

The crowd dispersed. The square emptied. The sun set. The tent, its purpose served for the day, stood in the darkening square. Inside, the desk, the floor, the wooden partition, all bore the evidence of the day’s activities. Fluids. Stains. The smell of sex disguised by the smell of incense.

Myra stood alone. In the darkening tent. Her body, trembling, ached. Every muscle. Every joint. Her pussy, stretched and raw, throbbed. Her ass, red and warm, stung. Her breasts, swollen and leaking, ached with the milk that had been sucked from them all day.

She looked down. At her hands. At the divine light, faint and golden, that still flickered in her palms. The power. The Goddess’s power. Flowing through her despite everything. Despite the corruption. Despite the fucking. Despite the cum that was currently leaking from her pussy into her boots.

’Why does the power still flow?’ she thought. ’Why does the Goddess not abandon me? I have broken every vow. I have been taken in every way. And yet the divine light remains. Because it is not mine. It is his. The power flows through me because he allows it. Because the divine sovereignty, the authority that even the Paladin knelt before, channels through him.’

’I am not a vessel of the Goddess.’

’I am a vessel of Viktor ktorian.’

The realization settled in her chest like a stone. Heavy. Cold. Inescapable.

She stood in the dark tent, leaking cum, and accepted it.