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

Chapter 732: Chapter 731- The Surprise of a Trapped Woman

His arms, under her back and knees, scooped her off the floor. Princess carry. Again. The same position he had carried Myra in. The same position that had preceded the priestess’s destruction. Her body, light in his arms, was held against his chest. Her face, cum-streaked and tear-stained, was against his neck. Her legs, bare and trembling, dangled.

She protested. The sound, muffled by the panty that had been stuffed back into her mouth at some point during the undressing, was a whimper. A gurgle. The ’I-am-saying-words-but-no-one-can-hear-them’ sound of a woman whose voice had been taken.

His body, against hers, was warm. Solid. The muscles, defined beneath the milk-white skin, were hard. Her breasts, in their black lace, pressed against his chest. The nipples, stiff and aching, scraped his skin through the fabric. His cock, semi-hard against her hip, was hot. The shaft, still wet, left a trail of moisture on her thigh.

She saw his body. Up close. The nail marks, the red scratches that the other women had left, covered his back. His chest. His shoulders. The evidence of hours of fucking, the physical record of four women’s desperation, was written on his skin.

He walked. Toward the bathroom. The other women followed. Their footsteps, unsteady and stumbling, trailed behind him. The sound of bare feet on stone. The occasional gasp. The ’mmph’ of a body that had been used past its limit but was still, impossibly, trying to follow.

Berenga fell first. The commander, whose legs had been the strongest, collapsed three steps from the bed. Her knees hit the stone. Her hands caught her. Her body, the thick, muscular body of a knight, folded. She lay on the floor. Her face, pressed to the cold stone, was slack. Her eyes closed. The exhaustion, the total, ’my-body-has-been-fucked-past-its-capacity’ exhaustion, claimed her. She was asleep in seconds.

Evriana fell next. The aunt, whose political mind had been the last to surrender, stumbled over Berenga’s prone form. Her ankle twisted. She went down. Her body, the thick mature body, hit the floor with a soft thud. She didn’t try to get up. Her eyes, brown and wet, found Viktor’s back. Watched him carry Veilera away. Then closed. The exhaustion claimed her.

Lucia made it to the bathroom doorway. The demon girl, her supernatural endurance carrying her further than the humans, gripped the doorframe. Her knuckles, grey-skinned, went white. Her body, trembling, held for a moment. Then her grip failed. She slid down the doorframe. Her legs folded. Her body, the ash-grey form, collapsed into a heap. Her crimson eyes, the last thing open, found Veilera’s face. Held. Then closed.

Myra, the priestess, the last, made it inside. Her feet, blistered and raw, carried her across the bathroom threshold. She took three steps. Then her legs, the legs that had been standing and kneeling and bouncing for six hours at the healing tent and then for hours more at the mansion, gave out. She fell. Not hard. The marble floor, polished and warm from the mansion’s heating system, caught her. She lay there. Face down. Her black hair, spread around her head like a halo. Her ass, red and marked, in the air. Asleep. Or unconscious. The distinction was meaningless.

Veilera, in Viktor’s arms, watched them fall. One by one. Like dominoes. The strongest women she had ever seen, women who had endured hours of relentless fucking, collapsing in the hallway and bathroom doorway like puppets whose strings had been cut.

’They are beasts,’ she thought. The words, which had been her mantra for hours, took on a new meaning. ’They pushed themselves. Past their limits. Past their exhaustion. Past their breaking point. To follow him. To the bathroom. To get fucked more. They could not stand. Could not walk. But they tried. Because he was going to the bathroom. Because they wanted to be where he was. Because they wanted his cock inside them again.’

’Beasts.’

’Mares.’

’And I am next.’

The bathroom was large. A Catorian mansion’s master bath, designed for nobility. The tub, carved from a single block of white marble, was big enough for four people. It was full. Steam, rising from the hot water, filled the room. The scent of lavender and rose, from oils added to the bath, mixed with the smell of sex and cum and sweat.

He set her down. On the edge of the tub. Her legs, bare, dangled over the marble. Her feet, in the hot water, tingled. The warmth, soothing on her blistered skin, was a contrast to the cold terror in her chest.

She saw the night. Through the bathroom window. The sky, outside, was dark. Black. The stars, scattered across the firmament, were bright. The moon, a crescent, hung low on the horizon.

Night. It was night. Full night. The evening had been consumed. The hours, the endless hours of watching and trembling and getting wet, had passed without her noticing. She had been so absorbed, so overwhelmed by the pheromones and the sight and the sounds, that she had not noticed the sun setting. Had not noticed the room darkening. Had not noticed the candles being the only light.

’How long?’ she thought. The horror of the realization was fresh. ’How long have I been here? How long has he been fucking them? How long have I been watching?’

’And how long will I be—’

He pushed her.

Not gently. His hand, flat on her chest, shoved. Her body, off-balance, fell backward. Into the tub. The water, hot and fragrant, engulfed her. The splash, massive, sent water over the rim. Onto the floor. Her head went under. The warm water, filling her ears, nose, mouth, was suffocating for a moment. Then she surfaced. Gasping. Coughing.

Her hair, plastered to her face, was in her eyes. Her bra, black lace, was transparent with water. Her breasts, visible through the wet fabric, heaved.

Her nipples, dark and stiff, pressed against the lace. Her panties, silk and already wet, were now waterlogged. The fabric, clinging to her, showed everything. The dark hair of her mound. The outline of her lips. The shape of her clit.

She cried out. The sound, choked with water, was a gurgle. The ’I-am-drowning-and-being-assaulted’ sound that was more distress than actual danger.

He was in the tub. With her. The water displaced by his body rose. Lapped at her chin. His body, naked and warm and solid, was close. Too close. His cock, hard again, the twelve inches having recovered in the minutes since his last orgasm, jutted from the water like a mast. The head, dark and swollen, dripped. Not with water. With pre-cum.

His hands found her ankles. Under the water. Gripped. Pulled. Her legs, spread by the motion, opened. Her feet, pulled upward, were placed on his shoulders. Her body, the mature body of a Baroness, was positioned.

The pussy, covered by the wet silk of her panties, was exposed. The water, lapping at her hips, did nothing to hide the dark hair visible through the fabric.

He spread her legs. Wider. The muscles, his incubus-enhanced strength, made the effort trivial. Her thighs, pale and full, parted.

The strain, the stretch of her inner thighs, was uncomfortable. Not painful. The ’my-legs-are-being-opened-by-a-man-who-will-not-be-denied’ discomfort that was both physical and psychological.

She protested. The sounds, muffled by the panty gag, were desperate. The ’mmph-mmph-mmph’ of a woman whose words were trapped behind fabric. Her hands, finding the rim of the tub, gripped. Her knuckles went white.