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

Chapter 731: Chapter 730 - The Bath with Baroness

Her hand, at some point during the third hour, had drifted to her thigh. The fingers, trembling, had traced the inside of her leg through her dress. The motion was unconscious. Involuntary. The ’my-body-needs-touch’ response that the pheromones demanded. She had caught herself. Yanked her hand away. Pressed it flat against the wall. But the warmth between her legs had not subsided. It had grown. The damp spot on her panties had spread. The ache in her clit had become a throb.

Now, in this moment, she watched the four women sucking him. The slurping. The mumbling. The mindless devotion. And her hand, the traitorous hand that she had pinned to the wall, was on her thigh again. Moving. Up. The fabric of her dress, bunched at her hips, was being pushed by her own fingers. Toward her soaked panties. Toward the source of the heat that was consuming her from the inside.

’No,’ she thought. ’No. Stop. What are you doing? You are a Baroness. You are—’

Viktor looked at her.

His head, tilted back against the headboard, turned. The green eyes, which had been half-closed in pleasure, opened. Found hers. The amber. The terror. The arousal. The hand on her thigh.

The smile that crossed his face was slow. Knowing. The ’I-see-what-you-are-doing’ smile that made her blood freeze and her pussy clench simultaneously.

He looked down. At the four women. At their mouths on his cock and balls. At the combined effort that had been going for... how long? Minutes? The slurping had a rhythm. A pace. Not the frantic pace of a man about to cum. The leisurely pace of a man being serviced. Enjoying. Savoring.

His hand moved. To Berenga’s head. His fingers threaded through her dark hair. Gripped. Pulled. The commander’s mouth, which had been sucking the base, was pulled off. The release was wet. A string of saliva and pre-cum connected her lips to his shaft. The strand stretched. Broke. Fell onto her chin.

Evriana’s mouth, still licking, was pushed away by his other hand. The aunt, whose tongue had been tracing the vein, was gently displaced. Her lips, wet and swollen, released his shaft with a soft pop. Her brown eyes, confused for a moment, found his face. Read the expression. Understood. She sat back on her heels. Waited.

Lucia, her mouth full of his testicle, was tapped on the shoulder. She released. The ball, wet and warm, emerged from her mouth with a slick sound. Her crimson eyes, questioning, looked up. He pointed. She moved. Sat back. Waited.

Myra, her lips on the head, was the last. His hand, on the back of her head, held her for a moment. The priestess, who had been lapping at the slit, continued. Unaware. Lost in the rhythm. His grip tightened. He pulled. Her mouth, the seal broken, released the crown with a wet POP. The pre-cum, the thin clear fluid, stretched between her lips and the head. Broke. Fell onto her chest.

The four women sat back. On their heels. Around him. Their faces, wet with saliva and pre-cum and cum, were slack. Dazed. The ’we-were-sucking-and-now-we-are-not’ confusion that was not confusion but obedience. They watched. Waited. For the next command. The next position. The next use.

Viktor’s hand, free of all mouths, went to his cock. He stroked. Slowly. The shaft, slick with four women’s saliva, glistened in the candlelight. The head, dark and swollen, was pointed. Not at the ceiling. Not at the women around him.

At Veilera.

The Baroness, in the corner, saw the head. The slit. The pre-cum beading on the tip. Aimed at her like a weapon.

"No," she said. Her voice was hoarse. Scratchy. The sound of a throat that had been breathing through the mouth for hours. "Stop. Don’t—"

He came.

The first rope, thick and white, shot from the head. The trajectory, aimed by his hand, was accurate. The stream crossed the three feet between the bed and the corner. It hit her face. The forehead. The white fluid, warm and heavy, ran down her nose. Onto her cheek.

The second rope. Lower. Her mouth. The cum, thick and salty, hit her lips. Her chin. The fluid, warm and musky, seeped between her lips. Her tongue, betraying her, tasted. Salt. Bitterness. The taste of a man who had been fucking for hours.

The third rope. Her dress. The red fabric, already stained from the carriage ride, received another mark. The white fluid, thick and visible against the red silk, spread. The fourth. Her chest. The fur, matted with previous fluids, received another layer. The fifth, weaker, fell short. Onto her knees. Onto the hem of her dress.

Veilera trembled. Her hands, which had been on her thighs, flew to her face. Covering her eyes. As if blocking her vision would make the cum disappear. As if not seeing the white fluid on her hands, on her lips, on her dress, would make it less real.

"My bad," Viktor said. His voice was casual. Conversational. The ’I-just-came-on-a-Baroness-and-I-am-apologizing’ tone that was the opposite of apologetic. "Your dress got bare."

The pun, the crude ’bare’ instead of ’dirty’, was lost on no one. The four women, sitting around him, tittered. The sound, weak and broken, was the laughter of women who had been fucked past the point of dignity.

"So," he continued, his voice carrying the same casual authority, "we go take a bath."

Veilera’s hands dropped from her face. The amber eyes, wide with horror, found his. The cum, still wet on her face, ran down her cheeks. Her lips, parted in shock, were white. Her chin, dripping. Her dress, ruined.

"What?" she whispered. The word was barely audible. "No. Stop."

He was already moving. Off the bed. His feet, bare on the stone floor, made no sound. His cock, still semi-hard, swung between his thighs. The shaft, slick and wet, caught the candlelight.

The other women moved. All four. Their bodies, broken and exhausted, pushed themselves off the bed. The motion was not graceful. Berenga stumbled, her thick legs giving out for a moment before she caught the bedpost. Evriana rose on shaking knees, her hands gripping the mattress. Lucia, the demon girl, crawled off the end of the bed, her tail dragging. Myra, the priestess, simply rolled off the side and landed on all fours.

They moved toward Veilera. In the corner. Four naked women, cum-covered and sweat-slicked, their bodies bearing every mark of the evening’s activities, moving toward the Baroness with purpose.

"What are you—" Veilera started. Her back pressed harder against the wall. Her hands, palms flat on the stone, pushed. "Stop. Don’t—"

Berenga reached her first. The commander’s hands, large and calloused, found the neckline of Veilera’s dress. Gripped. Pulled. The fabric, red silk, resisted. Then tore. The sound, the RRRRIP of expensive silk surrendering to hands that were stronger than they should have been, filled the room.

Evriana was at her hips. The aunt’s fingers, trembling but determined, found the waistband. Pulled. The dress, already torn at the neckline, split further. The fabric, the expensive, imported, carefully tailored fabric of a Baroness’s formal gown, was torn from her body in pieces. The skirts came away. The sleeves. The bodice.

Lucia was at her back. The demon girl, her ash-grey hands strong with supernatural vitality, pulled the remnants from her shoulders. The last strips of red silk fell to the floor.

Myra was at her feet. The priestess, on her knees, found the clasp of Veilera’s shoes. Removed them. The heels, expensive and imported, were set aside.

Veilera sat in the corner. In her bra and panties. The bra, black lace, barely contained her breasts. The panties, silk and soaked, clung to her. Her body, the mature body of a woman in her middle years, was exposed. The pale skin. The curves. The full hips. The soft belly. The breasts, heavy and straining against the lace, heaved with each rapid breath.

She trembled. Her amber eyes, wet with tears, found Viktor’s face. He was standing over her. Looking down. The green eyes, calm and appraising, traced her body. From her face, still cum-covered. Down her neck. To her breasts. To her belly. To her soaked panties.

"No," she whispered. The word was all she had. All she could manage. The ’please-stop’ that her mouth produced while her body, saturated with pheromones, produced nothing but heat and wetness.

He lifted her.