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

Chapter 724: Chapter 723- A Carriage filled with Lust

Veilera’s amber eyes widened. The pupils dilated. The ’the-Holy-Church-is-using-Catorian-knights’ realization that made no political sense and was therefore terrifying.

"Priestess?" she repeated. The word was hollow. Her gaze moved from the knights to the carriage. The large, ornate, closed carriage with the Catorian crest and the Holy Church’s silver sun mounted on the roof.

She could not refuse. The Catorian family, whatever their political standing, were Dukes. A Baroness did not refuse a Duke’s summons. The political reality, the hierarchy of noble rank, was absolute. She could be angry. She could plan revenge. But she could not refuse.

Her jaw clenched. Her fan snapped shut.

’This is a power play,’ she thought. The amber eyes, narrowed, calculated. ’After declaring independence, after refusing to bow, they use force. They use the Holy Church as a shield. They summon me. A Baroness. To a carriage. Like a servant.’

’I will make sure to deal with this forcefully.’

She straightened her spine. Smoothed her dress. Adjusted the fur. Walked toward the carriage. Her heels clicked on the cobblestone. Each step was measured. Deliberate. The walk of a woman who would not show fear.

The knight opened the carriage door. He stepped back. The interior, dimly lit by lanterns, was visible from the outside. The first thing Veilera saw was the upholstery. Velvet. Silk. The luxury of a Duke’s carriage.

She stepped up. Reached for the door frame. Leaned in.

A hand grabbed her collar.

The pull was violent. Sudden. Her body, yanked forward by a grip that had no regard for her title or her dignity, fell. She stumbled. Her knees hit the carriage floor. Her hands, reaching for support, found nothing. She fell forward. Between several feet.

Something wet hit her face.

The carriage door slammed shut behind her. The interior, now sealed, was lit only by the lanterns. The orange glow, warm and flickering, illuminated the scene.

Veilera looked up. Her amber eyes, wide with shock, found the source of the wetness. White fluid. Dripping from above. From the bench above her. Thick. Warm. It ran down her forehead, over her cheek, onto her chin. The smell, the musky, salty, unmistakable smell of semen, hit her nose.

She looked up.

Myra was on the bench. The priestess, her black robe open, her breasts exposed, was seated. Her legs were spread. Her panties, white cotton, were stuffed in her mouth. Her bra, black lace, was tied around her wrists, binding them. Another pair of panties, lacy and foreign, was tied around her ankles, securing her legs to the bench. Her body was bouncing. Up and down. The motion, the rhythmic rising and falling, was driven by something beneath her. Or someone.

The priestess’s face was a mask of ruined composure. Tears, snot, and drool ran freely. Her violet eyes, rolled back, showed white. Her tongue, extended past the panty gag, moved in rhythm with the bouncing. Her breasts, large and red from abuse, swung with each descent. The nipples, stiff and leaking milk, sprayed thin white streams with each impact.

Between her legs, visible from Veilera’s position on the floor, was the junction. The priestess’s pussy, framed by dark hair, was stretched. The lips, swollen and raw, were wrapped around a shaft. A thick, veined, twelve-inch shaft that was buried inside her. The cock, emerging from beneath the priestess’s body, was visible. The base, the root where shaft met pelvis, was visible. The balls, heavy and full, were visible. The thighs, muscular and pale, were visible.

The man was beneath the priestess. On the bench. His body, from Veilera’s angle on the floor, was mostly hidden. She could see his thighs. His hips. The base of his cock. The tail, scaled and prehensile, which was wrapped around the priestess’s waist, holding her in place.

But not his face. The angle, the priestess’s body on top, the shadows, all conspired to hide his face from view.

"What is the meaning of this?" Veilera demanded. Her voice, which should have been commanding, came out shaken. The Baroness, the woman who had smirked at a young lord and then trembled in her carriage, was on the floor of another carriage, covered in semen, looking up at a priestess being fucked.

The voice that answered was not the priestess’s.

"Mind your words," a woman’s voice said. Not from the bench. From the opposite side of the carriage. "Aren’t you a small merchant?"

Veilera’s head turned. The amber eyes, wide, found the speaker.

Evriana sat on the opposite bench. The Catorian aunt, her brown hair loose, her gown formal, sat with the composure of a matriarch. Beside her, Berenga. The commander, her arms crossed, her expression amused. Beside her, Lucia. The demon girl, her crimson eyes glowing, her expression predatory.

"Lady Evriana?!" Veilera gasped. The recognition was instant. The Catorian aunt. The matriarch. The woman who had organized the event where Veilera had been forced to her knees. The ’what-are-you-doing-here’ shock that made no sense because everything about this situation made no sense.

The carriage moved. The horses, urged forward, began their journey. The cobblestone rhythm, the creak of wheels, the clink of harness, filled the interior. The carriage swayed. The lanterns swung. The shadows danced.

Veilera, still on the floor, pushed herself up. Her hands, finding the edge of the bench, lifted her torso. She sat back on her heels. Her red dress, stained with the white fluid that had dripped from above, was ruined. Her fur, matted. Her hair, disheveled.

She looked at the priestess.

Myra was bouncing. The motion, driven by the hips beneath her, was continuous. Up. Down. Up. Down. The cock, inside her, was visible with each rise. Three inches. Four. Then the descent, the full twelve, the complete sheathing that made Myra’s belly bulge and her mouth open and her eyes roll.

PAH. PAH. PAH.

The sound was clear. Unmistakable. The sound of flesh meeting flesh, of hips hitting ass, of a man fucking a woman. The carriage interior, small and enclosed, amplified it. The PAH filled the space. Bounced off the walls. Pressed against Veilera’s ears.

"Mmm—♡ mmmph—♡" Myra’s moans, muffled by the panty gag, were rhythmic. Each descent produced a sound. Each thrust, each PAH, pulled a note from her throat that was halfway between a scream and a whimper.

Veilera looked at the other women. At Evriana, who sat with her hands folded in her lap, her expression serene, as if a priestess being fucked three feet away was perfectly normal. At Berenga, whose arms were crossed and whose eyes, half-lidded, tracked the priestess’s bouncing with an expression of recognition. At Lucia, whose crimson eyes glowed and whose tongue, pink against grey skin, traced her lower lip.

"Mind your words, aren’t you a small merchant."

The words replayed in Veilera’s mind. The insult, delivered by a woman she should outrank, a Catorian aunt who was nonetheless a mere lady while Veilera was a Baroness. The political hierarchy, the noble ranking, the ’I-am-above-you’ structure that Veilera had built her life upon, was being dismantled.

She looked back at the priestess. At the bouncing body. At the cock, visible with each rise, thick and veined and impossibly large. At the cum, the white fluid, that leaked from the junction and ran down the shaft. At the milk, thin and white, that sprayed from the priestess’s nipples with each impact.

Veilera’s own body was responding.