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

Chapter 541: Chapter 540- Don’t Tell me Wives

The Westing mansion had been many things in its long life.

A nobleman’s seat. A territorial administration hub. A house in mourning. A house under siege from accountants and political maneuvering and the slow, methodical strangulation of men who had decided its mistress was a problem to be solved.

Tonight it was something else.

The master bedroom — the largest room on the second floor, with the high ceiling and the wide windows that looked out over the dark territory below — had been repurposed in the most fundamental way a room can be repurposed. The vanity had been pushed against the far wall. The wardrobe stood open and irrelevant. The writing desk in the corner had acquired a secondary function, its surface now holding an arrangement that had nothing to do with correspondence.

The wooden dildo — smooth, polished, the size of something that communicated intent clearly. The golden chain with its two small hooks at each end, designed for nipples, the hooks shaped like crescent moons. Anal beads in graduated sizes, strung on silk, the largest at the end the size of a man’s thumb. A small glass vial of oil. A length of soft rope. A blindfold made from something that had once been a silk scarf.

Viktor had arranged these himself.

Not hastily. With the methodical, unhurried attention of a man planning something he is genuinely looking forward to, placing each item with the considered placement of someone who knows exactly what each one is for and has already, in the privacy of his own head, decided the order.

He had then sat on the bed.

And waited for them to find their positions.

They had.

Eliantra Westing on his left thigh.

She had recovered — the day had been long and horizontal and the halfs had done their work twice over, her body rebuilt to a state that technically qualified as well-rested even if nothing about the previous twenty-four hours qualified as restful. She sat on his thigh with the particular, settled posture of a woman who has found the location that makes the most sense and has stopped questioning it. Her hip against his, her one breast — the left one, full and heavy and warm — pressed flat against his chest, the nipple leaving a small damp mark on his shirt fabric from the milk that leaked continuously and without consultation.

Her mouth at his neck.

Not kissing. Not biting. The slow, soft, intermittent contact of lips against skin that a woman makes when she has been broken down to her components and is running on sensation rather than intention. Each exhale warm against his throat. Each small, involuntary ’”Mnh~—”’ vibrating against his pulse point.

Her pussy — recovered, rebuilt, tight again courtesy of the halfs, the healing having done its thorough and efficient work — pressed against his thigh through nothing because she was wearing nothing, the warmth and the faint, continuous dampness of it soaking into his trousers.

Helviana on his right.

The commoner. The borrowed woman. The wife from the ordinary house with the flower on the step.

She sat with the particular, different quality of a woman who has not yet fully accepted her own position — there was still something in her spine, some residual architecture of a woman who had a life outside this room — but her body had made its own separate peace with the situation and her body was considerably louder than whatever remained of her spine’s opinion.

Her right breast against his chest, mirroring Eliantra. Her mouth at the other side of his neck. Her lips moving in the small, almost imperceptible way that meant she was murmuring something she wasn’t committing to saying at full volume.

’”Mnh~— mas...ter~— mnh~—”’

Her free hand — the one not pressed between her body and his — had found the back of his arm and was holding it. Not gripping. Holding. The specific, unconscious hold of a woman who is somewhere between wanting to be here and being terrified of how much she wants to be here, and has resolved the conflict by simply not letting go.

Viktor’s hands.

His left hand had Eliantra’s breast. The full, heavy, warm weight of it in his palm, the soft give of it yielding completely to his grip, the nipple pressing stiff and insistent against the center of his palm.

He squeezed.

Milk jetted from her nipple — a thin, pressurized arc that carried over his knuckles and continued past them, traveling through the air in a brief, warm rainbow before landing somewhere below with a faint, wet impact.

Eliantra’s mouth opened against his neck.

’”Mngh~— V—viktor~—”’

His right hand had Helviana’s breast. Same grip. Same squeeze.

Same result.

The milk from her hit the top of Rehana’s head.

Below the bed’s edge — or rather, below him, because he had positioned himself close enough to the edge that ’below’ was accessible — two women.

Rehana on his cock.

Her mouth had been on him since they arrived, since the moment he’d settled into the king’s chair of his own arrangement and she’d simply gone where she always went now, where her body understood itself to be useful. Her throat had been doing what his cock had trained her throat to do.

The outline of his cockhead was visible in the side of her neck.

Bulging. Pressing outward against the thin skin of her throat each time she descended, the shape of him traveling down through her and then withdrawing, traveling down, withdrawing, the movement smooth and practised and thoroughly committed. Her eyes — when they weren’t rolling — were up. Finding his face from below. The expression in them carrying the particular, melodic quality that matched her voice — even wrecked, even running wet at the corners, even in the specific condition of a woman whose throat had become a thoroughfare, her face had a softness to it.

Her hands at his thighs. Her breasts resting against his knees, heavy and warm, the nipples dragging against his trousers with each movement of her head.

The old maid below her.

Less old than she had been this morning. The wrinkles continuing their quiet retreat, the skin of her throat and jaw and the area around her eyes taking on the texture of a decade ago. A woman in her middle forties, now, rather than her sixties, the difference written clearly in the line of her neck and the fullness of her lips and the way her eyes had lost the faded quality of age and regained depth.

She was at his balls.

Her tongue moving in the slow, broad, thorough strokes of a woman who understood what she was doing — not performing, not frantic. Methodical. The devoted, considered attention of a woman applying herself to a task she had identified as personally beneficial and was therefore executing with complete commitment.

Her hands at the base of him, below Rehana’s mouth, the two of them working the same terrain in different registers.

The room was full of sound.

Wet sound. Soft sound. The continuous, overlapping collection of four women doing four different things to the same man simultaneously, the moans and the slick noise of Rehana’s throat and the old maid’s devotional work and the small, broken sounds coming from Eliantra and Helviana against his neck, the milk dripping, the faint, continuous ’”Mnh~— mmh~— slrp~—”’ of it all composing something that was not music and was not noise and was specifically and entirely its own category.

Viktor looked at the desk.

At the arrangement on it.

At the wooden dildo and the chain and the beads and the rope.

His mouth curved.

He looked at Helviana.

Her eyes were closed. Her lips moving against his neck. Her breast warm and leaking in his palm.

”Don’t tell my wives,” he said.

His voice was conversational. The voice of a man saying something perfectly reasonable.

”But I want to treat you all like you deserves to be.”

The room’s sound changed register.

Eliantra’s lips paused at his neck. Her eye opened — the one visible to him — with the particular, wary attention of a woman who has learned that sentences beginning with ’I want to try something’ in this man’s voice carry significant implications for her body’s immediate future.

Helviana’s grip on his arm tightened.

Below them, Rehana made a sound around his cock that vibrated through the full length of him — not a word, just the sound of a woman whose throat was currently occupied but whose body had heard the sentence and formed an opinion.

The old maid simply continued what she was doing.

She had long since stopped having opinions about Viktor’s sentences. She simply positioned herself to be useful in whatever followed.

Viktor looked at the desk.

The chain with the nipple hooks caught the lamplight.

He smirked.