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

Chapter 483: Chapter 482- Next Payment will Melt you

Then the tail moved.

She didn’t see it coming.

She felt it.

The specific, ’wrong,’ unexpected, impossible sensation of something entering her from below — smooth, warm, shaped differently than fingers, different than his cock — pressing against her entrance and ’pushing in’ with the flat, insistent determination of something that had been waiting patiently for its turn.

The tail.

The incubus tail — spade-tipped, narrower than his cock but equipped with the specific, infernal design of something built to find nerve endings and ’press’ — entering her stretched, creampied, soaked pussy with the smooth, comprehensive slide of something built for exactly this.

And then it ’vibrated.’

She hit the ceiling.

The sound she made was not a moan.

It was not a scream.

It was the compressed, muffled, throat-deep sound of a woman who has just received two simultaneous inputs she had no framework for and whose body has responded by doing everything at once.

”’MMMPH~!! HNGHH~!! HIIEEK~!!’”

Her hips rose.

Both of them — the full, involuntary arch of her pelvis toward the tail, her body seeking the vibration, the specific, insistent ’frequency’ of it running from the tail’s tip against her inner walls and transmitting outward through every connected nerve pathway.

Her thighs shook.

Her wrists pulled the belt taut.

The milk ran faster.

PAH! PAH!

His hips in her throat. His tail in her pussy. Both filling her simultaneously, both moving in the specific, counterpointed rhythm of a man who has done this before and understands that the two channels work best when they work together.

The vibration.

It reached somewhere that the fingers had found earlier and pressed there ’continuously’ — not the intermittent press of a knuckle but the sustained, relentless, ’unwavering’ vibration against the exact spot that made her thighs shake and her eyes stop tracking.

”’MMMMPPH~!! HNGH~!! PLEASE~!! MMPH~!!’”

She pissed herself.

Not from weakness. From the complete, involuntary shutdown of every system that wasn’t currently occupied with the orgasm — the warm, sudden, uncontrolled release of her bladder adding to the wet ruin of the sheets below her as the orgasm crashed through her in a full-body seismic event that started in her pussy and arrived at her fingertips.

She tried to scream.

His cock muffled it.

The sound came out as a compressed, desperate, deeply muffled ’wail’ around his shaft — tears streaming from the corners of her eyes, her whole face wet, her hips jerking against the tail in the specific, rhythm-less, uncontrolled spasm of a body that is being operated by forces entirely outside its owner’s management.

He came again.

In her throat.

The ropes of it — thick, warm, immediate — firing directly past her tongue and down, her throat working in the reflexive, automatic swallow of a woman who has been given no other option, the seed landing somewhere deep while her pussy simultaneously flooded around the tail.

”’MMPPH~— hngh~— mm~—’”

He gripped her head.

Both hands. Fingers in her hair. Holding her face against his hips as he finished — the specific, possessive, complete grip of a man closing a transaction.

He looked down at her.

At the tears. At the wide, rolled, overwhelmed eyes. At the milk still running from both nipples in thin, continuous streams onto the wet sheets.

”’Congratulations,’” he said.

His voice was warm. Genuine.

”’You’re my wife now.’”

Her eyes.

The word landed in them — ’wife’ — and something moved. Behind the overwhelm and the tears and the rolled-back haze, something that was distinctly her and was not the orgasm and was not the incubus chemistry reacted to the word.

Her nipples leaked harder.

Her pussy clenched the tail.

Both involuntary.

Both the specific, comprehensive, body-level answer to a word that her mind was still processing and her blood already understood.

He pulled out of her throat.

She coughed.

The rough, gasping, productive cough of a woman reclaiming her airway — the seed running from the corner of her mouth, her chin, her chest, joining the milk already there.

”’Haaah~—’”

She breathed.

Deep. Ragged. The specific, earned breath of someone who has just surfaced.

He reached up.

Untied one wrist.

One ankle.

Left the others.

She tried to speak.

”’Please—’” Her voice was wrecked. The specific, scraped-raw, entirely-used quality of a throat that had just been comprehensively occupied. ”’Please I can’t— my body, I can’t feel— please, no more, I’m—’”

He took her free leg.

Hooked it over his arm.

Turned her.

The spoon — her back to his chest, his arm under her waist, her hooked leg opening her hip at the angle that exposed her from behind, his cock finding the wet, stretched, tail-vacated entrance of her pussy and ’settling.’

”’Bon appétit,’” he said.

His voice was warm.

Fond.

The voice of a man who means it.

He pushed in.

”’AAANGHH~— NO~— PLEASE~— I CANNOT~—’”

PAH! PAH!

”’HNGH~!! MASTER~!! MY BODY~!! IT’S TOO—’”

She had no framework left.

The orgasm from the tail had taken the last of her reserves and he was filling her again — the same stretch, the same deep, the same cervix-press — but in the spoon position the angle was different, the fullness arriving from a slightly different direction and landing against a wall of sensation that had been built up for the past hour and had no more defense.

His arm came around her.

Found her breast.

Grabbed it.

Not gentle. The full, possessive, working grip of a man using what he has — his fingers sinking into the soft, heavy, milk-wet flesh of her, the nipple between his fingers, the squeeze producing both pain and the reflexive, immediate milk-release simultaneously.

She reached back.

Her free hand finding his hip — not pushing. Holding. The specific, helpless grip of a woman who needs something to hold and the only thing available is the man destroying her.

PAH! PAH! PAH!

”’AAAHH~!! TOO DEEP~!! FROM THIS SIDE~!! HNGH~!! PLEASE~!!’”

The milk.

Running over his hand. Down her stomach. Onto the sheets. The continuous, warm, steady production of a body that had fully committed to the wife bond and was doing what wife bond bodies do.

Her boob in his grip — the jiggle of it even constrained, the soft, warm weight of it overflowing his fist on every thrust, the nipple leaking between his fingers.

PAH! PAH!

”’HIIEEK~!! MASTERRR~!! AAANGHH~!!’”

PAAAH!

”’AAAAHHHH~!!’”

”’Don’t cry,’” he said, into the back of her neck.

His voice was quiet. Almost gentle.

”’Your son will wake up.’”

PAH! PAH! PAH!

”’HNGH~!! HOW DO I~!! AAAHH~!! NOT CRY~!! WHEN YOU~!!’”

PAH!

”’HIIEEK~!!’”

”’Quieter.’”

”’I~!! CAN’T~!! AAANGHH~!!’”

He increased the pace.

She pressed her face into the pillow.

Her free hand grabbed it. Covered her mouth. The specific, maternal, desperate self-muffling of a woman who is being thoroughly fucked and is trying to be a responsible parent about it.

The sounds she made went into the pillow.

Compressed. Wet. Continuous.

”’Mmmnnghhh~!!’”

”’Hngh~— mmph~— aaahh~—’”

”’MMMNNGH~!! PLEASE~!!’”

Her pussy, gripping him on every thrust — the wet, tight, comprehensive embrace of a well-used channel that had adapted completely to his dimensions and was now performing with the specific, exhausted, ’perfect’ responsiveness of something that has been broken in.

His hips.

Steady. Unhurried. The specific, comfortable rhythm of a man who has nowhere to be and has decided that this room, this night, this woman is exactly the correct allocation of his time.

His hand on her breast.

The milk running over his fingers. The grip adjusting with every thrust — the specific, practiced squeeze of someone milking with purpose, his fingers drawing the warmth of it out in long, rhythmic pulls that matched his hips.

He thought.

The Mistress.

Eliantra Westing. The thick, exhausted, dark-circled woman in the mansion on the hill with her files and her dead husband’s legacy and her daughter’s choices and Rihana currently deployed against her defenses.

He thought about the bath.

About the seed in the water.

About the specific, involuntary way she’d looked at him across the tub.

About the hug in the bathhouse when she’d grabbed his face and her wet nipples had pressed against his chest and she’d been completely unaware of either.

PAH! PAH!

”’Mmmmnnghhh~!!’”

About the question he’d asked her.

About the answer she hadn’t given yet.

’What will it be,’ he thought, ’Aunt.’

’The corruption is almost gone from the city.’

’By morning, you’ll have a functioning county again.’

’And then it’ll just be you and me and a very large mansion and the question you’re still sitting on.’

PAH! PAH! PAH!

Helviana’s hand grabbed his hip harder.

Her pussy fired — the third orgasm, smaller than the others but sharper, the specific, focused precision of a body that has used everything it had and is producing this one from reserves it didn’t know it had — and the sound that came from the pillow was the soft, helpless, ”’Mmmnnngh~—’” of a woman who has stopped having opinions about the matter and is simply receiving.

He came with her.

The warm, deep, interior flood of it — less volume than before, the body accounting for how many times tonight already, but ’thorough.’ The specific, complete, every-drop thoroughness of a man who does not do things halfway.

He held her.

”Sigh... I think, I will need to taste your little hole once save your husband.”

”!”