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

Chapter 722: Chapter 721- Going back to a Mansion

The voices came from outside the tent. Female. Multiple. The sound of boots on cobblestone and the clink of light armor.

Myra straightened. Her body, which had been hanging limp over the desk, forced itself upright. The priestess mask, cracked but functional, reassembled. She smoothed her robes. Wiped her face. Adjusted her collar.

The tent flap opened.

"Priestess Myra?" a voice called. Strong. Commanding. Familiar.

Berenga entered first. The commander of the night order, tall and thick-bodied, her massive breasts straining against her formal tunic, her dark hair pulled back in a military braid. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, swept the tent. Found the desk. The partition. The priestess.

Behind her, Evriana. The Catorian aunt, her brown hair loose, her formal gown replaced by traveling clothes. Her brown eyes, still carrying the redness from days of crying and fucking, found Myra with an expression of mixed sympathy and amusement.

And behind her, a third figure. Lucia. The demon girl, her ash-grey skin catching the lantern light, her crimson eyes glowing faintly. Her body, barely covered in the remnants of her war dress, was tense. Ready. The captive who had been dragged along.

"Priestess," Berenga said. Her voice was professional. The ’I-am-here-on-business’ tone. "Is Victor not here?"

Myra’s heart sank. The question, the casual use of his name, the expectation that he would be here, made her chest tighten. She opened her mouth to respond.

SMACK.

The slap hit her ass. From behind. Through her skirt. The sound was sharp, loud, echoing in the small tent. Myra yelped. Her body jerked forward. Her hands found the desk for support.

The three women stared.

"He is," Myra whispered, her voice strained, her face crimson. The flush spread from her cheeks to her neck. She could feel the heat. The shame. The ’he-just-slapped-my-ass-in-front-of-three-women’ humiliation that was somehow worse than being fucked behind a partition.

The wooden partition door, which had been concealing the back half of the tent, opened.

Viktor stepped out.

He was naked from the waist down. His pants, discarded somewhere behind the partition, were absent. His shirt, open and hanging from his shoulders, exposed the milk-white skin of his chest and abdomen. The muscles, defined and taut, caught the lantern light. His tail, the scaled prehensile appendage, swayed behind him. His cock, twelve inches, soft but still enormous, hung between his thighs. The shaft, slick with cum and arousal, glistened.

His face. The green eyes. The sharp jaw. The expression that was simultaneously innocent and wicked. The face that looked like a god and smiled like a devil.

All three women reacted.

Berenga’s professional composure cracked. Her eyes, which had been assessing the tent, locked onto his cock. The memory of the bathroom, of being bent over and fucked until she pissed herself, hit her like a physical blow. Her face flushed. Her thighs, unconsciously, pressed together.

Evriana’s brown eyes softened. The aunt, the matriarch, the woman who had been fucked in a hallway during her own event, looked at him and felt her pussy clench. The ’my-nephew’ thought that should have been shameful was instead warm. Familiar. Welcome.

Lucia’s crimson eyes narrowed. The demon girl, the captive, the woman whose body was controlled by his authority, trembled. Not from fear. From the pheromones that radiated from his skin and made her ash-grey flesh prickle with heat.

All three moved at once. Toward him. Like iron filings to a magnet.

"Victor—" Berenga started.

"You’re back—" Evriana breathed.

Viktor caught them. His arms, wide enough to encompass, gathered all three. His hands found their hips. Gripped. Pulled. Three bodies, three sets of curves, three women who had been fucked by him before, pressed against him. His hands, on their asses, squeezed. The flesh, through fabric, deformed under his fingers.

"What happened?" he said, his voice carrying the usual amusement. The ’three-women-clinging-to-me’ nonchalance that was both genuine and infuriating. "You all look good."

The trembling priestess, standing behind them, watched. Her violet eyes, wet with fresh tears, saw the three women clinging to the man who had been inside her for six hours. The jealousy, the ’they-get-to-touch-him-too’ jealousy that she should not have felt, was there. Buried beneath the shame. Present nonetheless.

"We have come to take you to the nearby mansion," Berenga said, her voice muffled by his shoulder. Her face, buried in his chest, was hidden. The professional tone, rebuilt with visible effort, was shaky. "You have been here two days. Helping people."

"Have I?" Viktor said. He looked over their heads. At Myra. The priestess, standing behind the desk, her face red, her eyes wet, her hands clasped in front of her ruined panties. "Two days of service."

He moved. Slowly. Toward the priestess. The three women, still clinging, were displaced. His hands released their hips. He walked past them. Toward Myra.

She retreated. One step. Two. Her back hit the tent pole. Her hands, behind her, gripped the wood. Her violet eyes, enormous, found his face. Then his cock. The twelve-inch shaft, hanging between his thighs, was level with her waist. The head, dark and wet, dripped.

He grabbed her hair.

His hand, fisted in her dark locks, pulled her head down. Her face tilted. Her mouth, opened to protest, was met with the head of his cock. The tip, salty and wet, pressed against her lips. She opened. The habit, the trained response, was automatic. Her jaw stretched. The shaft, still soft but growing, entered her mouth.

"No," Viktor said, his voice conversational, directed at the three women behind him. "She is the one here helping me."

The three women watched. The priestess, on her knees, her mouth stuffed with his cock, her hands gripping his thighs for balance, her eyes rolling as the shaft hardened and extended down her throat. The bulge, visible through her neck, showed the length. The shape. The impossibility of twelve inches disappearing into a woman’s mouth.

Myra’s throat worked. The gag reflex, suppressed by days of practice, was controlled. Her breathing, through her nose, was labored.

The saliva, thick and copious, ran from the corners of her mouth and down her chin.

She pulled. Her head moved. The rhythm, the ’I-am-sucking-his-cock-in-front-of-three-women’ rhythm, was slow. Deliberate. Her hips, unconsciously, moved. The empty pussy, still leaking cum, clenched on nothing.

He humped. His hips, driving forward, pushed deeper. The throat bulged further. Myra’s eyes, watering, found the three women. The violet gaze, filled with shame and pleasure and the ’please-help-me’ plea that was not actually a plea but an invitation, met theirs.

"Please," she gasped, pulling off for a breath. The cock, wet and shining, emerged from her throat. The saliva, thick strings, connected her lips to his shaft. "Help..."

Berenga, Evriana, and Lucia exchanged looks. The looks were not confused. Not shocked. They were the knowing, ’we-have-been-there’ looks of women who understood exactly what was happening.

"So," Berenga said, her voice carrying a smirk, "don’t you take her somewhere? Have a very good night with her?"

Viktor looked at them. His hand, still in Myra’s hair, held her face at his hip. The priestess, her mouth open, her tongue extended, her eyes glazed, was a picture of submission.

"Yeah," he said. "I was thinking. But she needs to help people, right?"

The women chuckled. The sound was warm. The ’we-know-what-helping-people-means’ laughter that was both joke and conspiracy.

"Let’s go to the mansion," Evriana said. Her voice was soft. The aunt, the matriarch, the woman who had kissed him in a cave and fucked him in a hallway, made the decision. "We have a carriage outside."