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

Chapter 485: Chapter 484- The Boss of Red Light Area

She walked.

The lane noticed her immediately.

Not with the normal noticing — the professional, calculating assessment of a district that evaluates newcomers for economic potential — but with the ’other’ kind of noticing.

The kind that happens when something enters a space that the space was not built for.

The three men against the north wall — who had been making arrangements for a second round with the woman in the red dress — all turned.

Looked.

The man with his hand on the red-dress woman’s hip felt something happen.

Specifically: the thing that had been very much present thirty seconds ago was no longer present.

He looked down.

Looked up.

Looked at the woman walking down the lane with the short skirt and the loose bodice and the leather lead and the specific, overwhelmed expression of someone who has been brought somewhere they were not prepared for.

His cock was limp.

Not tired-limp. Not satisfied-limp.

Just — ’gone.’ The specific, absolute, complete withdrawal of all interest from every piece of relevant biology, the way a candle goes out in wind.

He blinked.

The man behind him was having the same experience.

The third man — the one who had been looking forward to a second turn — looked at himself.

Back at the woman.

Back at himself.

”What.”

It spread down the lane.

Silently. Invisibly. The wave of Viktor’s ’Sexual Immunity’ ability moving through the district like weather — the passive field extending from his wives, rendering every male in a considerable radius thoroughly and completely and permanently uninterested in producing an erection for anyone other than the source.

The man with his cock in the smoking woman’s mouth went soft.

She looked up.

Took the cigarette from her lips.

Looked at him.

”Are you serious.”

He looked at himself.

”I don’t—”

She stood. Looked down the lane.

The two women in the doorway went quiet.

They were both looking at Viktor.

Their pussies, which had been thoroughly indifferent for the last two professional hours, were producing a different report entirely.

”Who,” one of them said.

The other one: ”I don’t know.”

First one: ”Is he available?”

Second one: ”I would pay him.”

”I would pay him more.”

Around the lane — the soft, collective, bewildered sound of a district whose entire operating model had just been interrupted. Cocks going limp in every direction. Women looking up from their work with the specific, confused, increasingly ’interested’ expression of people whose bodies had just been redirected by something they couldn’t identify.

One of the women near the wall pressed her hand between her own thighs.

Her eyes found Viktor.

”Haah~—”

Another one: ”Why is it doing that—”

”I don’t know but he’s—”

”Who is he—”

”I’d do it free—”

Viktor walked.

’[System Notification]’

’Sexual Immunity: Active — radius 400 meters’

’All male entities within range: Non-functional’

’Wife response: Heightened [proximity field]’

His hands in his pockets. The lead in one of them. Helviana at the other end of it, walking slightly ahead, her hands pressed to her skirt hem, her face a comprehensive study in mortification.

Her body, though.

The sway of her. The dress moving with her hips. The loose bodice, the morning light catching the soft upper curve of her chest.

The prostitutes watched her.

”She’s with him,” someone said.

Flat. Certain. The specific, reading tone of women who do this professionally and can identify a claimed woman by posture alone.

Silence from the rest.

The silence of a lane full of professional women looking at a man who had just made every cock in the district useless and whose ’wife’ looked like ’that’ and was being walked on a ’lead.’

Something in the collective chemistry of Velmoor Lane made a decision.

Several women touched themselves.

Quietly.

The butler arrived.

He materialized from a doorway at the lane’s center — the VIP establishment, three stories, the specific, understated architecture of a place where the prices were considerably higher than the average and the clientele arrived in private carriages.

He was dressed for it. Formal. A little absurd against the backdrop of the lane.

He gave a bow.

”Dear guest.” His eyes went to Viktor. To the lead. To Helviana’s dress. To the line of limp cocks in his peripheral vision. ”You perhaps should not be— this lane is not typically—”

”Who runs this district,” Viktor said.

The butler straightened slightly.

”His name is Aaron Verhayan.”

”Take me to him.”

The VIP lounge was smoke and silk and the specific, curated atmosphere of a man who has money and spends it demonstrating the fact.

Women everywhere.

Not working — not currently, the mid-morning lull of a district between shifts — but present. Draped across furniture, seated in clusters, lying on the wide, cushioned platforms along the walls in the loose, comfortable exposure of women who are paid to be available and are currently between being available.

Bodies. Everywhere. The warm, varied, honest reality of women who work with their bodies and have stopped organizing their exposure around the comfort of others.

Marks on them. Seed dried. The specific, frank aftermath of the morning’s first shift still visible on skin and fabric and hair.

They looked at Viktor when he entered.

All of them.

The same way the lane’s women had looked at him.

With the specific, comprehending, ’immediate’ interest of bodies that had been receiving a certain kind of signal all morning and were now receiving a different signal from the correct source.

Several of them shifted.

Crossed and uncrossed their legs.

”Hah~—” One of them, very quietly, to herself.

The man on the sofa.

Aaron Verhayan.

Forty-something. The body of a man who had been physically imposing once and had replaced the muscle with money and the attitude that came with it. Three women stood behind his sofa — dressed, which at this hour meant ’recently dressed,’ their bodies still carrying the warmth of what the morning had been before Viktor walked through the door.

He had his elbows on his knees.

He was looking at Viktor.

Specifically at the situation Viktor was presenting — the lead, the woman at the end of it, the entire composed, unhurried confidence of a man who has walked into a criminal enterprise’s headquarters and is treating it like a social call.

”What have you done,” Aaron said.

His voice was flat. Controlled. The voice of a man who manages his anger because anger is expensive.

”Done?” Viktor said.

He pulled the lead.

Helviana came forward — the momentum of it carrying her body against his, the full, soft, warm impact of her against his chest — and his hand, the one holding the lead, moved.

Found the underside of her breast.

Lifted.

The weight of it in his palm — the full, soft, heavy press of her breast against his hand, the loose bodice offering no structural resistance — his fingers curling under the curve, the nipple hardening against his thumb through the thin fabric.

She gasped.

”Hn~—”

The sound filled the room.

Several of the lounging women looked up.

Aaron’s jaw tightened.

And then his eyes went down.

Between his own thighs.

At the eight inches of cock that had been reliably functional for his entire adult life and which was currently lying there with the specific, complete, bewildered limpness of something that has forgotten what it’s for.

He stared at it.

Looked at the women behind his sofa — at their bodies, the specific visual input that had always, without fail, produced a reliable response.

Nothing.

Not tired. Not satisfied. Just — ’absent.’ The specific, maddening, total non-response of biology that has been turned off at the source.

”You—” His voice changed register. ”You bastard. So it was ’you.”