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

Chapter 745: Chapter 744- A Noble man Thief in Ledgers

The words, the ’your-anal-walls-are-clenching-my-cock’ observation, were delivered with a groan. The ’I-am-about-to-cum’ groan that preceded the eruption.

He came. The load, the thick hot seed, flooded her ass. The cum, the white fluid, filled her rectum. The overflow, leaking around his shaft, ran down her thighs. Mixed with the cum from her pussy. The combined fluids, the white rivers, pooled on the couch.

She fell. Face first. Into the cushions. Her body, limp, was twitching. The aftershocks, the orgasmic and pain-induced aftershocks, made her limbs jerk. Her eyes, rolled back, saw nothing. Her mouth, open, drooled onto the fabric.

Viktor pulled out. His cock, slick with cum and ass, emerged. The head, dark and satisfied, dripped. He wiped himself on her skirt. The fabric, already ruined, was a rag.

Another day. The morning light, through the office window, fell across the desk. The accounts, the ledgers, the records of the Redwood mansion’s finances, were spread before him.

Viktor sat. In the chair. Behind the desk. His pen, a quill dipped in ink, was in his hand. The numbers, the columns, the entries, were being processed. The ’I-am-finding-out-where-the-money-went’ investigation that was also the ’I-am-finding-out-who-else-to-punish’ assessment.

The pen fell.

The quill, slipping from his fingers, hit the floor. The small sound, the ’tap’ of feather on stone, was the only noise in the quiet office.

"Come on," he said. His voice was conversational. "Give it there."

Meg, beneath the desk, was on her knees. Her mouth, open and wet, was on his cock. Not sucking. Resting. The shaft, the twelve inches, lay on her tongue. The head, the dark crown, was at the back of her throat. Her face, tilted upward, looked at him. Her green eyes, the pupils dilated, were obedient. The ’I-am-yours’ expression that was both submission and devotion.

Her collar, the leather band that he had placed around her neck, was new. The ’property-of-Lord-Viktor’ mark that was both literal and figurative. The leash, hanging from the collar, was tucked into his pocket.

She reached. Her hand, finding the quill on the floor, picked it up. Her other hand, the one that had been holding his shaft, stroked. The motion, the ’I-am-giving-you-the-pen-while-sucking-your-cock’ multitasking, was practiced. Days of practice. The ’I-have-learned-to-serve’ efficiency that was both training and acceptance.

She handed him the pen. Her mouth, never leaving his cock, sucked. The slurp was soft. Continuous. The background music of his office work.

He took the pen. Her hand, free, went to his balls. The heavy sac, the testicles that had filled her pussy and her ass multiple times, was cupped. She massaged. The slurp-slurp of her mouth on his cock. The squeeze-squeeze of her hand on his balls.

He focused. On the accounts. The numbers. The entries. The names.

The names.

A name, in the ledger, caught his eye. A transfer. A payment. A sum of gold, directed from the Redwood allowance to an external account. The name on the receiving end.

His pen, the quill, stopped. The ink, pooling on the paper, formed a blot. His eyes, scanning the entry, read the name.

A nobleman’s relative. Someone connected to a house that Viktor recognized. A house that had been at the political event. A house that had been on its knees.

He ignored it. The entry, the payment, was small. Insignificant in the larger picture. The ’this-is-not-worth-my-time’ dismissal that was also the ’I-have-bigger-fish-to-fry’ assessment.

He continued reading. The accounts, the financial records of years of embezzlement, were a map. A map of who was stealing what and how much. The ’I-will-deal-with-each-of-them-later’ cataloging that was filed away for future reference.

Beneath the desk, Meg sucked. Her head, bobbing, maintained the rhythm. The slurp-slurp was constant. The squeeze-squeeze was rhythmic. The ’I-am-serving-my-master-while-he-works’ devotion that was both duty and pleasure.

She looked up. Her green eyes, finding his face, were calm. Not terrified. Not tearful. Calm. The ’I-have-accepted-my-place’ serenity that came from days of training. Days of fucking. Days of being remade.

Her tongue, the pink muscle, traced the vein on the underside of his shaft. The sensation, the ’she-is-getting-better-at-this’ improvement, made him pause. Just for a moment. The ’she-is-learning’ recognition that was also the ’good’ approval.

He returned to the accounts. Another name. Another entry. Another nobleman’s relative.

"Wait," Viktor said. His voice was quiet. "Who is this bastard again?"

The question, directed at no one in particular, was the ’this-name-is-annoying-me’ irritation of a man who was trying to focus on numbers but kept seeing names he did not like.

Meg, beneath the desk, pulled off his cock. The shaft, wet and shining, emerged from her throat. The POP was soft. She looked up. Her green eyes, framed by the desk’s edge, found his.

"Ignore it," she said. Her voice, the trained servant’s voice, was soft. "Well tamed maid, bitch."

The words, the self-deprecating ’I-am-just-a-bitch’ statement, were delivered with a straight face. The ’I-know-my-place-and-I-do-not-pretend-otherwise’ acceptance that was both sad and practical.

Viktor looked down. At her. At the green eyes. At the collar. At the cock, wet with her saliva, that was inches from her face.

He grabbed her hair. Pulled her back onto his cock. The shaft, re-entering her mouth, muffled whatever she was going to say next.

"Suck," he said. One word. The ’I-am-working’ dismissal that was also the ’do-not-stop’ command.

She sucked. The slurp resumed. The pen, in his hand, moved.

The name was Circien.

Viktor’s quill, poised above the ink-stained page, traced the letters again. Circien Dulane. Relative of the late Viscount Hartfield, the man who had once governed the territory before Eliantra had taken the reins. The Viscount was dead. His relatives, however, were not. And this particular relative had been busy.

The ledger, which covered six months of transactions, told a story that was almost impressive in its audacity. Circien Dulane had been selling supplies to the Redwood mansion at prices that were four, five, sometimes six times the market rate. Cleaning supplies. Furniture. Food. Wine. Everything that a functioning household required, inflated to absurdity. The difference between the listed price and the actual market price went directly into his pocket. Hard cash. Gold coins. The lifeblood of the mansion, drained by a parasite who had attached himself to the corpse of the Viscount’s legacy.

But it was not just the overcharging. The ledger revealed a second layer. Payments, listed under vague headings like ’consultation fees’ and ’territorial services’, were being funneled to entities that did not exist. Shell accounts. Ghost merchants. The money was moving through the Redwood name into the capital’s black market, where Circien operated a network of shady businesses that ranged from illegal trade goods to information brokering. All under the protection of the Redwood family crest, which he had no right to use.

The mansion, the shabby and neglected mansion that Viktor had arrived at three days ago, was not shabby because of neglect. It was shabby because it was being bled dry. By a man whose name was now circled in ink on the ledger before him.

Viktor leaned back. The chair, old and leather, creaked. His eyes, green and sharp, remained on the name. The calculation, the ’how-much-has-he-stolen’ calculation, was already complete. Three hundred gold coins from the dwarven couple. Nearly two thousand from Circien’s scheme over six months. The mansion’s annual budget, which should have supported twelve servants and maintained the property to a Count’s standard, had been consumed by greed.

"Meg," he said.