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

Chapter 575: Chapter 574 - Finish the Sentence

The sound of it — clean, full, her ass registering the impact with the honest, warm, involuntary clench of flesh that has been struck — carried into the garden and bounced off the stone wall and dispersed into the night.

Dara’s hands gripped his shoulders tighter.

”The— the woman who—” Her voice, trying to organize itself around a situation in which her brain was attempting to retrieve information while her body was processing the ongoing arrival of his hand at her lower back and his cock pressing against the inside of her thigh.

”With the knife,” Viktor said. Patient. ”The kitchen woman. Tell me about her.”

His fingers moved.

Finding the edge of her panty.

The thin, plain, practical cotton of inn-servant underwear — the working-woman’s fabric, sensible and washable and very much in the way of where his fingers were going.

He did not remove it.

He pressed against it.

”Mnh~—”

The sound she made when his fingers found her through the fabric — the warm, involuntary, immediately honest response of a woman whose body had been in a state of confused arousal for the last two hours and had now been directly addressed.

”Talk,” he said.

His fingers moved in a slow, deliberate circle against the fabric.

”I— she—” Dara’s voice, unraveling at the edges. ”She’s been at the inn for— I don’t know exactly how long— before I arrived, she was already—”

PAH!!

”NGH~!!”

”Clearly,” Viktor said. ”Who is she.”

His fingers pushed the panty to the side.

The night air found her.

Then his fingers found her.

”MMPH~!!”

The full, warm, slick, immediate reality of two fingers pressing into a woman who had been wet for two hours and was now being directly, efficiently addressed — the sound of it, the wet, honest sound of entry, carrying in the garden quiet.

Her inner walls closed around his fingers with the involuntary, truth-telling grip of a body that had no opinions about what her mind was trying to organize.

”Haahh~— she— she had a different name when she arrived— the old guests called her something else— commander, they called her commander once, one of the old regulars— she ignored it—”

Viktor’s fingers curled.

The specific, deliberate curl of fingers that know exactly where a particular thing is located and are going directly there.

”AAAHH~!!♡—”

Her hips jerked forward.

The full, helpless, involuntary forward-thrust of a woman whose body had just been found at the relevant point and was responding with the honest, comprehensive response of something that had been waiting.

Her tits — pressed against his chest, the heavy, rounded weight of them flattening against him through her inn uniform dress, the fabric damp from the heat of the evening, her nipples stiff through the cloth.

His cock, against her inner thigh — pressed, hot, patient.

”Commander,” Viktor said.

Not a question. The tone of a man filing something.

”Keep going,” he said. His fingers did not slow.

”She— the regular said she’d served somewhere— in the north campaigns— haahh~— I heard— NGH~!— someone say Crimson— Crimson something— I didn’t—’

She lost the sentence.

His thumb had found her clit.

”HAAAH~!!♡♡—”

The sound broke from her and went into the night garden without her permission — louder than she had intended, the involuntary, full-volume response of a woman who had been building toward something without acknowledging it for two hours and had now been given the direct, efficient attention that had been building toward.

”Mnh~— mmph~— Crimson Matriarch—” she gasped, pushing the words out through the sensation like a woman pushing through water. ”She mentioned the Crimson Matriarch’s army— not by name— but the way she said it—like she knew—like she—AAANGHH~!!♡—”

Viktor’s fingers moved faster.

The wet, slick, continuous sound of them in her — audible in the garden quiet, unmistakable, the honest audio of a woman being thoroughly addressed outdoors on a stone bench in a guild garden at midnight.

”She lost people,” Dara managed. ”Her family— there was a battle— she tried to leave the Matriarch’s service— they let her leave but they took— they kept—’

She couldn’t finish.

Not because she didn’t know.

Because his fingers had arrived somewhere that made the architecture of sentences unavailable.

”AAANGHH~!!♡♡!! NGH~!! NGH~—”

Her hips were moving.

The helpless, rhythmic, entirely involuntary grinding motion of a woman whose body had made its decision independent of anything her mind was trying to do — moving against his hand, the friction of it, the warm, sustained, building pressure of his thumb and his curled fingers working simultaneously.

Her boobs pressed harder against his chest with each rock of her hips.

The hairy, slick, hot reality of her pussy around his fingers — the soft, dense hair damp now, the lips swollen and dark, her body producing the continuous, wet evidence of what was happening to her.

”Her family,” Viktor said, his voice entirely unmoved by what was happening below his wrist. ”The Matriarch kept them.”

”As— as— leverage—” Dara gasped. ”She was spared— in exchange— for them— they let her walk but they kept her— HAAHH~!!♡— her husband— her brother— I don’t know who— she never said— but the way she said it—”

She shuddered.

The full-body shudder of a woman arriving at the edge of something — her thighs pressing closed around his hand, the helpless clamp of a body trying to control what was happening to it by containing it, and failing.

”Please—” The word arriving without her deciding to say it. ”Please— I’m—”

”Finish the sentence,” Viktor said.

His fingers did not slow.

”I’m—’

PAH!!

The slap landing on her ass with the clean, full, open-palm impact of his free hand — the sound of it meeting the sound she made simultaneously:

”AAANGHH~!!♡♡♡!!”

She came.

The full, sustained, helpless, shaking orgasm of a woman who had been building toward this for two hours and had arrived at it on a stone bench in a garden with a man’s fingers inside her and his tail still looped at her waist and his cock pressed hot against her inner thigh.

Her hips ground forward in the hard, rhythmic, completely uncontrolled pulses of orgasm — each one squeezing his fingers, her inner walls clenching and releasing with the honest, comprehensive grip of a woman whose body had completely taken over the proceedings.

”AAAHH~!!♡— NGH~!! NGH~!! HAAHH~!!♡♡—”

The sounds she made went into the garden.

Into the vine on the wall.

Into the night.

She did not care.

She was past caring.

Her hands on his shoulders — gripping, white-knuckled, the desperate, anchoring grip of a woman holding onto the person responsible for what was happening to her because he was the only thing that was solid.

Viktor waited.

Through the orgasm. Through the shaking. Through the soft, broken, involuntary sounds of a woman on the other side of something who was finding her breath again.

He waited with the patient, entirely unmoved quality of a man who had done this many times and had no strong feelings about the timeline.

She breathed.

The long, recovering, slightly mortified breath of a woman who had just come apart on a stone bench in a garden while providing intelligence.

She became aware of his cock again.

It had not resolved.

It was pressed against the inside of her thigh with the warm, substantial, entirely patient hardness of something that had been operating at this capacity all evening and was going to continue to do so until something changed.

She looked at him.

At his face.

At the entirely composed, mildly-interested, not-particularly-affected expression of a man who had just made her come in a garden and was currently looking at his tail.