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

Chapter 566: Chapter 565- Two Maids Helping the Mistress Take it Deep

The guild mistress’s body registered this.

The thick, stretching fullness of the cock making her cry from the inside out, the sheer force of it breaking through the numbness. ’It hurts... please...’ Her inner voice was a ragged sob, an agonizing plea directed into the void while her physical form remained bound by the spell.

The sound was not loud — could not be loud, the paralysis limiting the volume to something between breath and voice — but it was genuine, the honest sound of a body receiving something at depth and responding to it with the only communication channel still partially open.

Her hips shifted.

Dara held them.

Viktor held her hips from above.

Helviana held her shoulders from the side.

All three of them, in the candlelit chamber, attending to the guild mistress with their hands in the particular, layered, entirely earnest configuration of people who had each arrived at this position by very different routes and were all currently here for reasons that were at least partially true.

The blue was retreating.

Visibly. The process accelerating now that the channel was established — the mana that had been turned inward finding the external path that Viktor’s body was providing and moving toward it with the relief of something that has been dammed and has found its outlet.

The skin at her shoulders warming.

The dark circles — very slightly, at the outer edges — beginning to lighten.

Her breathing deepened.

By a fraction.

But measurably.

Dara felt it under her hands — the shift in the breathing transmitting through the body she was holding, the ribcage expanding slightly more with each breath, the quality of the alive-warmth under her palms increasing.

She looked at Viktor’s back.

At the candlelight on it.

At the focused, patient, unhurried quality of a man doing a thing he knew how to do.

She looked at Helviana.

Helviana was looking at the guild mistress’s face.

The expression on Helviana’s face was the expression of a woman watching something she had also experienced — not the same, never the same, but adjacent enough to produce recognition — and finding, in the recognition, something she didn’t have a word for yet.

”Is she—” Dara said. Low.

”Getting better,” Helviana said. Simply.

Dara looked at the skin.

At the blue retreating.

At the breathing deepening.

She looked at her own hands on the guild mistress’s hips.

She did not let go.

Viktor worked.

The candles burned.

The guild below was empty now — fourteen adventurers already on the north road, their packs on their backs and their questions filed for later, doing the thing their guild master had ordered because their guild master had ordered it and that was the arrangement they had agreed to.

The guild master himself is in his office one floor below, waiting to depart but hoping to see some signs of recovery through treatment.

Sitting.

Not working. Sitting. His hands flat on the desk. His eyes on the wall.

The expression of a man who had been told a thing he had been told was impossible and had watched it begin to happen and was now sitting with the specific, fragile, dangerous feeling of a man who has started to hope.

’I hope you will soon be alright wife.’

Upstairs:

”Nngh~— mnh~—”

The guild mistress’s fingers uncurled from the blanket.

Slowly.

And then curled again.

But differently this time — the curl of something choosing rather than something responding, the small, half-conscious grip of a woman whose hands were starting to remember they were hers.

Viktor noticed this.

His tail moved.

The slow, satisfied curl of something that had found the frequency it was looking for.

He looked over his shoulder one more time.

At Dara.

Her face in the candlelight.

The inn uniform. The strong hands. The tired, intelligent eyes that were currently occupied with something they had not expected to be occupied with and were doing the work anyway.

He looked at her.

Said nothing.

Turned back.

Pressed deeper.

”NNGH~— mnh~— nnh~—”

It took just a few minutes before he created a delicious pace with that thick jiggling swaying ass.

PAH!!

The sound was not loud.

Not the full, open, room-filling impact of what happened in carriages and forest clearings and bathtub floors — the chamber was a sickroom and the woman in it was still fragile and Viktor was not operating at his full, unconcerned, nothing-to-preserve volume.

But it was genuine.

The honest, meaty, unavoidable sound of hips connecting with the full, thick, milky-white softness of a woman’s ass at the conclusion of a thrust — the dense, heavy jiggle of her cheeks absorbing the impact, the ripple moving outward and dying at the edges of her wide hips, the pillow beneath her shifting slightly from the momentum.

The guild mistress made a sound.

”Mnh~—”

Not a word. Not a choice. The sound that lives below words and choices, in the part of a woman that continues to function when the rest has been taken offline by paralysis and mana reversal and the concentrated, cumulative assault of a situation she had no preparation for.

Her fingers pulled the blanket.

Hard.

The knuckles whitening.

Inside her:

’KILL HIM.’

The thought arrived with the force of everything she was — thirty-eight years of being a woman who had survived things by being more dangerous than the things, of having built a guild from scraps, of having taken a sword scar at twenty-two and worn it as a credential rather than a wound — compressed into two words directed at a husband who could not hear them.

’HUSBAND. KILL HIM.’

Her mouth opened.

”Mmph~—”

That was all that came out.

The paralysis had taken her voice down to this — the barely-voiced, barely-structured, humiliatingly soft sound of a woman whose body was responding to something her mind was screaming against, the two running on separate tracks in the dark of her own skull with no connection between them.

’I’m a guild master,’ she thought. ’I have killed fourteen men. I have—’

PAH PAH!!

”MMPH~!! Mnh~—”

The second thrust. Deeper. The full, blunt, comprehensive entry of him pressing every inch of his cock into her anal and seating there with the patient, complete, declaratory weight of something that had arrived at its destination and was acknowledging the arrival.

Her hips — held.

By hands she could feel but could not see, the firm, living grip of someone at each side keeping her wide hips from the helpless rocking her body was trying to perform.

The grip on her left hip was different from the grip on her right.

The left grip: practiced. Firm without being harsh. The grip of a woman who had done this before and knew the appropriate pressure.

The right grip: strong — genuinely strong, the hands of someone who worked physically — but less practiced, the grip of a woman who was applying strength because strength had been requested and was uncertain about everything else.

’There are two of them,’ the guild mistress registered. ’There are two women helping him.’

’KILL THEM ALSO.’

”Mnh~—”

Helviana had her hand on the guild mistress’s back.

Not both hands anymore. One hand at the shoulder, maintaining the stability that had been the original request, and the other — the other had migrated south.

The way Helviana’s hands migrated south.

The way they had been migrating south, under the direction of instinct that Viktor had spent two days educating into her body, since she had gotten within arm’s reach of the thick, milk-heavy, candlelight-warm breast of the woman lying in front of her.

Her fingers found it.