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

Chapter 530: Chapter 529- Public Show off

The air changed first.

Not visibly. Not with sound or color or any dramatic signal a man could point to and name. It simply ’changed’ — the way pressure changes before a blade finds its mark, the atmosphere of the room compressing inward from every wall simultaneously, landing on every chest, every throat, every sitting spine at the same moment.

The sword domain.

Not the full weight of it. Not the total, annihilating pressure he’d used the night before when skulls had converted to mist without ceremony. This was the ’edge’ of it — the controlled, deliberate release of something vast choosing to present only its outermost fraction, the way a man shows you the tip of a blade he is not yet swinging.

It was enough.

Culliver’s paper fell from his hands. He did not pick it up.

Renwick’s hand found his own throat again and this time stayed there, fingers pressing like he was checking if it was still attached.

Dagger Lom — who had survived three decades of criminal enterprise and two assassination attempts and had never, to his knowledge, experienced fear in the physical, intestinal sense — felt something move through his lower body that he had no name for and no desire to examine.

Seven men sweated.

Seven pairs of shoulders curved inward simultaneously.

Seven pairs of eyes found the table and stayed there.

Viktor looked at all of them from above.

His chuckle was quiet. Brief. The single, low sound of a man who has made an observation and found it lightly amusing.

”If any one of you lifts your head and looks,” he said, ”I’ll kill them. Instantly.”

Simple words. No theater. No embellishment.

The kind of sentence that does not need decoration because the thing underneath it is already fully visible to every nervous system in the room.

Seven men breathed in very carefully.

None of them looked up.

Viktor looked down.

Below the desk — both of them.

Rehana had moved her mouth from his balls to the thick, heavy base of his shaft, her tongue tracing the underside with the slow, devoted attention of a woman who had spent the night learning this geography and had no intention of forgetting it. Her dark eyes, glazed at the edges, slid up to find his face.

Her heavy, full breasts — the kind that had weight and heat and swayed with every small movement of her body, the nipples thick and stiff and dark — rested against the insides of his calves, warm and soft and damp.

Eliantra had his cockhead between her lips.

Still working. Still moving her head with that particular, purposeful rhythm that was no longer performance and had not been for several hours — it was simply the way her mouth moved when it was on him. Like her throat had made a decision about this and stopped consulting the rest of her.

Her throat bulged with each forward descent — the outline of his cockhead visible through the skin of her neck, the hard, unmistakable shape of it pressing outward against the pale, thin flesh of her throat, rising and falling with each slow bob.

She was crying again.

Not from pain. Not fully. The tears ran continuous and automatic down her cheeks, dropped from her chin onto her swinging, heavy breasts, and her eyes — red-rimmed, dilated, mascara entirely gone — tilted up to his face with that same expression they’d had for the last hour.

The gratitude expression.

The one that embarrassed her more than anything else happening to her body.

Viktor looked at her.

His mouth curved.

Then he stood.

The old woman moved first — the old maid, still maintaining her dignified posture near the chair back, reached and drew the chair away with practiced efficiency as Viktor rose to his full height. She had been standing there through all of it. Performing her function. The expression on her face was the expression of a woman whose professional obligations had required her to witness many things and who had developed the capacity to be present without being ’present.’

Though when his shirt fell open slightly with the motion of rising — when the fabric parted and the tail became visible, sliding free from where it had been tucked, curling once at the base and then extending behind him with the slow, deliberate motion of something that had been patient for a while and was now done being patient — her composure fractured.

Just slightly.

Her eyes went to it. Involuntarily. The way eyes go to something they recognize.

The tail had been inside her the previous night. She knew the texture of it. She knew the vibration it produced when it chose to. She knew what happened to a woman’s body — any woman’s body, old or young, controlled or otherwise — when that tail decided it was interested in her.

She had felt her youth in a way she had no vocabulary for.

Her gaze moved away very quickly. She straightened her apron. She looked at the wall.

Viktor did not acknowledge this.

He simply buttoned one button. Leisurely. And then let the tail move.

It moved fast when it decided to.

The tip — pointed, precise, carrying the weight of something that had spent a night learning exactly how much force was necessary for exactly what effect — crossed the space between him and Rehana in under a second, looping around her throat from below with a light, firm pressure that was not choking and was not gentle and communicated its message with complete clarity.

Rehana made a sound.

”HIEH~!! Nn—ngh~!!”

The tail tightened. Not around her throat — it slid lower, crossing her collarbone, the tip finding her left breast with unerring accuracy and ’clutching.’ Not squeezing. Clutching — the , encircling grip of something with intent, wrapping the full, soft, heavy weight of her breast from underneath and pulling upward.

She cried out.

”AAHNGH~!! V—vic—NGHH~!!”

The seven men at the table flinched at the sound. None of them looked up. Several of them gripped the edge of the table.

Viktor pulled.

Rehana came up from the floor like a fish on a line — scrambling, her thick thighs finding purchase, her heavy breasts swinging wildly with the motion, the one being held by the tail bouncing hard against the other as she found her feet. Her breath came in short, high bursts.

”Hahh— haah~— Mmh~!!”

Then his hand found Eliantra’s hair.

The same grip as before. The owned grip. The grip that had been communicating the same thing all morning.

He pulled her up.

She rose with a sound that was half-cry and half-involuntary moan — the exhausted, oversensitized complaint of a body that had been floor-level for a long time and was now being reminded of gravity.

”Ungh~— nnh—!!”

Both women standing.

Viktor between them.

He reached — both hands, simultaneously — and gripped. Both pairs of breasts. Eliantra’s on his left, Rehana’s on his right, the full, heavy, soft weight of them filling his hands completely, fingers pressing inward.

Eliantra’s gasp was sharp and loud.

”HAHN~!!”

She looked forward. Toward the room. Toward the seven men with their heads down and their papers shaking in their hands.

The realization landed on her face the way cold water lands — sudden, full-body, impossible to pretend hadn’t happened.

She was on ’display.’

The men could not see her — their heads were down, and Viktor had made the consequence of looking upward explicit — but the knowledge that they were ’there’ while his hands were ’here’, while her breasts were filling his palms and her nipples were pressing against his fingers and her body was doing everything her body was doing — the shame of it bloomed across her face in a bright, violent flush that ran from her cheeks down her throat to her chest.

thump thump