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

Chapter 744: Chapter 743- The other hole was a bit Tighter

The sound, the same snap that had activated the slave mark on Dorin, carried. The butler, his body tensing for the pain, instead felt his throat close. The choking, the ’something-is-blocking-my-airway’ choking, made him gag. His hands, going to his throat, clawed. His face, going red, then blue, was a mask of panic.

The gardener, the old one-eyed man who had been standing in the corner, rushed forward. His arms, wrapping around the butler from behind, performed the Heimlich. The thrust, the upward push on the diaphragm, dislodged whatever was blocking the airway. The butler, gasping, fell to his knees.

Viktor, watching, took another bite of bread.

"Sleeping pills," he said. His voice was casual. The ’I-found-the-poison-in-my-food’ observation that was delivered like a weather report. "In the soup."

He looked at the three servants. At the butler, on his knees, gasping. At the maid, in her bra and panties, trembling. At the gardener, his one eye wide with fear.

"From now on," he said, "know your positions."

The words, the ’you-are-slaves-and-I-am-your-master’ statement, were not a request. They were a new reality. The ’the-kindle-master-is-dead-the-devil-master-is-here’ reality that each of them, in their own way, was processing.

They trembled. They cried. The fear, the ’this-man-is-a-devil’ fear, was in every eye.

Meg, in her bra and panties, came down. Her body, the thick dwarven body, was on display. The pink hair, bright against her pale skin. The massive breasts, barely contained by the bra. The thick hips, straining the panties. The orange hair, visible through the cotton.

She ate. Bread and crumbs. Her hands, shaking, could barely hold the food. Her eyes, downcast, did not meet anyone’s gaze.

Viktor, watching her, reached. His hand, finding her arm, pulled. She slid. Off her chair. Onto his lap. The motion, the ’he-is-pulling-me-onto-his-lap-during-dinner’ motion, was seamless.

She cried. The tears, falling, hit his shirt. His hand, on her back, held her. His other hand, finding a glass of juice, poured. Not into a cup. Over her chest.

The juice, cold and sweet, ran over her breasts. The liquid, pooling in her cleavage, ran down her belly. The bra, the white cotton, went transparent. The nipples, dark and stiff, were visible through the wet fabric.

He leaned. His mouth found her breast. Through the bra. He sucked. The juice, mixed with the milk that was now flowing, filled his mouth. The taste, the sweet fruit and the warm milk, was intoxicating.

She was lactating. The Wife Package system, the one that induced milk production in any woman he claimed, was in full effect. The milk, the thin sweet fluid, was being drawn out by his suction. The bra, soaked with juice and milk, was useless.

He tilted her. Over the bowl. The porridge bowl, still half-full, was beneath her chest. His hands, finding her breasts, squeezed. The milk, the thin white streams, shot from both nipples. Into the porridge. The liquid, mixing with the oats, created a white swirl.

"Come on," Viktor said, looking at the butler. "Milk her. You are her husband."

Dorin, on his knees, his throat raw from the choking, looked up. The ’he-is-telling-me-to-milk-my-own-wife-into-a-bowl’ order that was both humiliation and test.

He crawled. To the table. His hands, shaking, found Meg’s breasts. The flesh, warm and heavy, was in his palms. He squeezed. The motion, the ’I-am-milking-my-wife’ motion, was practiced. He had done this before. In private. In their quarters. The dwarven practice of intimate nursing.

The milk, the white streams, shot into the porridge. The bowl, filling with the mixture of oats and milk, was ready.

Viktor pushed the bowl toward Dorin.

"Now drink it," he said.

The butler, his single eye wet, looked at the bowl. At the porridge. At the milk. His wife’s milk. Mixed with the food. The ’he-is-making-me-drink-my-wife’s-milk-in-front-of-him’ humiliation that was also the ’I-have-no-choice’ submission.

He drank. The porridge, the milk-soaked oats, was spooned into his mouth. The taste, the sweet milk and the bland oats, was familiar. The ’this-is-my-wife’s-milk’ knowledge that should have been intimate but was now a display of power.

Viktor, watching, moved behind Meg. The maid, bent over the table, her ass in the air. Her panties, the wet cotton, were pulled aside. The pussy, the cum-filled dwarven pussy, was exposed.

His cock, released from his pants, was positioned. The head, the dark crown, pressed against her entrance. The lips, the swollen and well-fucked lips, yielded.

He slammed.

PAAAH—!!

"AAAAAHH—♡♡♡♡!!"

The twelve inches. The full length. In one thrust. Her belly, the soft dwarven belly, bulged. The outline of the cock, the ridge running from pelvis to navel, was visible. The ’he-is-inside-my-womb’ sensation that made her scream into the table.

The gardener, the old man, watched. His one eye, wide with fear, looked at the butler. At the man who was drinking milk while his wife was being fucked three feet away. The ’this-is-our-life-now’ realization that was shared between them.

Dorin, his mouth full of porridge and milk, swallowed. His eye, finding Viktor’s face, was empty. Not defiant. Not angry. Not aroused. Just empty. The fear, the pure, ’I-am-nothing’ fear, had consumed everything else. The ’my-wife-is-being-fucked-and-I-feel-nothing’ impotence that was both physical and psychological.

PAH. PAH. PAH.

"AAAAHH—♡♡♡♡!! YOUNG—♡♡♡♡!! LORD—♡♡♡♡!! PLEASE—♡♡♡♡♡!!"

Viktor came. The load, thick and hot, filled her. The cum, the incubus-enhanced seed, flooded her canal. The overflow, the white fluid, ran down her thighs. Onto the floor. The ’he-came-inside-me-again’ knowledge that was both shame and acceptance.

He pulled her. By the hair. Her body, dragged across the table, knocked the bowl over. The porridge and milk, spilling, spread across the wood. She cried. The pain, the ’he-is-pulling-my-hair’ pain, was sharp.

He spread her legs. Against the couch. The parlor couch, old and worn, received her. Her body, bent over the armrest, was positioned. Her ass, the thick cheeks, was in the air. Her pussy, the cum-leaking entrance, was exposed.

He fucked her there.

PAH. PAH. PAH.

"AAAAHH—♡♡♡♡!!"

He spread her. The position, the ’legs-spread-against-the-couch’ position, opened her wider. His cock, the twelve inches, drove deeper. The head, past her cervix, was in her womb. The bulge, the belly ridge, was prominent.

"Now it is loose," he said. The words, the ’your-pussy-is-now-stretched’ observation, were both assessment and insult.

He placed his cock against her anus. The tight ring, the untouched entrance, was being asked to accommodate something it had never experienced.

"No," she whispered. Her voice, barely audible, was a plea. "Not there. Please. I have never—"

He slammed.

PAAAH—!!

"AAAAAAAAAAHH—♡♡♡♡♡♡♡!!"

The scream, the loudest yet, filled the mansion. The anal penetration, the twelve-inch cock driving into a virgin ass, was a violation that transcended the physical. The ’my-body-is-being-reshaped’ reality that was both destruction and creation.

He laid over her. His body, covering hers, was above. The height difference, two feet between them, meant he was completely above her. His hips, driving downward, slammed his cock into her ass like a piston into a cylinder.

PAH. PAH. PAH. PAAAH—!!

"AAAAAAAAAHH—♡♡♡♡♡♡♡!! FORGIVE—♡♡♡♡♡♡!! ME—♡♡♡♡♡♡!! YOUNG—♡♡♡♡♡♡!! MASTER—♡♡♡♡♡♡♡!!"

The screams, the ’I-am-being-destroyed-from-behind’ screams, roared through the hallway. The ’please-forgive-me’ pleas that were both prayer and surrender. The ’my-ass-is-being-wrecked’ reality that was also the ’my-body-is-his’ acceptance.

PAH. PAH. PAAAH—!!

He slapped her ass. The impact, the SMACK, left a red handprint on her pale skin. The flesh, the thick cheek, rippled.

"Your ass is milking me," he said.