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

Chapter 577: Chapter 576- A Maid’s Pleading to her Lord

She did.

She looked at her bound hands. At her dress. At the flagstone.

Her teeth found the hem of her skirt.

The action of a woman who had identified a problem and was solving it with the tools available: her skirt needed to be held out of the way, her hands were unavailable, and her teeth were present.

She bit the fabric.

Lifted it — her teeth holding the hem up against her chin, exposing her legs, her thighs, the thin cotton of her panty — and with her hands behind her back, she used her fingers, found the waistband of her own panty, and pulled it sideways.

Awkward.

Imperfect.

Real.

The particular, genuine, untheatrical struggle of a woman solving a practical problem with hands that were tied and teeth that were occupied and dignity that had been checked at the garden door.

Her pussy.

The moonlight found it.

The soft, dark, hairy reality of her — the full, unmanaged growth of a woman who had never had reason to think about it differently, the hair dark and dense and damp from everything that had already happened tonight, her lips swollen and dark and parted slightly, the wet evidence of her orgasm still visible on her inner thighs.

Viktor looked at her.

She looked at his cock.

She walked toward him.

The careful, slightly-shaking walk of a woman who had made a decision and was walking it to its conclusion on legs that were not entirely steady.

She positioned herself.

The tip of his cock pressing against her.

She felt it.

The full, blunt, warm, enormously-present pressure of his cockhead finding her entrance — the first, searing contact of something that was much larger than anything she had encountered, pressing against the tight, hairy, wet threshold of a woman who had not been here before.

”Mnh~—”

She exhaled.

Her legs spread slightly more.

She pushed down.

”AAAHH~!!—”

The head breached her.

Not deeply — one inch, two inches, the first, tearing, hot, comprehensive stretch of a woman being opened for the first time, her inner walls clenching around the invasion with the desperate, vice-tight grip of something that had never been asked to accommodate this and was not immediately convinced it could.

Her legs shook.

Viktor’s hands remained at his sides.

Resting.

Not helping. Not guiding. The deliberate, patient stillness of a man who had said ’impress me’ and was waiting to see if she would.

She pushed down.

”HAAANGHH~!!♡—”

Deeper.

The stretch becoming the particular, hot, tearing, overwhelming stretch of a woman whose hymen had been present until this exact second and was present no longer — the sharp, clean, decisive arrival of pain that announced the end of something.

The blood.

Thin. Running down the inside of her thigh in the moonlight — the honest, visible, entirely real evidence of what had just happened, catching the pale light and running slow.

Viktor looked at it.

At the thin red trail on the inside of her thigh.

At her face — white-knuckled, tear-streaked, teeth still holding the hem of her skirt up, jaw clenched against the sound she was making.

”NNGGHH~!!—”

His mouth curved.

”So,” he said. ”You’re not among those maids who spread their legs to idiots for money.”

The tone of a man who had discovered something he found genuinely interesting.

She was crying.

The full, hot, overwhelmed tears of a woman in pain who was also proud and was not going to say she was proud while she was crying.

”HAAHH~—” The sound of her, shaking, his cock halfway inside her, blood on her thigh, hands tied behind her, teeth in her own skirt. ”It hurts—”

”I know,” he said.

His hands moved.

Found her hips.

The full, warm, firm grip of both hands finding the width of her hips and holding — not pushing down, not pulling up, simply present. The grip of a man acknowledging what he was holding.

”I like your effort,” he said.

Then he pulled her down.

PHACK!!

”AAAAAANGHH~!!!♡♡!!”

The sound she made was not the sound of a woman managing a situation.

It was the sound of a woman whose body had been occupied balls-deep in one motion and was reporting this fact at full volume to the garden, the wall, the vine, the stone bench, the capital on the horizon, and anyone else who was present.

His balls against her ass.

The full, heavy, warm impact of them — seated. She was seated on him. Every inch of his cock inside her, the walls of her pussy stretched around the full, nine-inch, thick, vein-mapped reality of him, her body having been given no option but to accommodate because he had pulled her all the way down and there was nowhere else to go.

”NNGGHH~!!— NGH~!! HAAHH~!!♡—”

She was trembling.

The full, head-to-foot, continuous tremble of a woman whose body had received something enormous and was still processing the receipt.

Viktor looked at her face.

At the tears.

At the hem of the skirt she was still holding with her teeth — the particular, stubborn tenacity of a woman who had started a task and had not released it even when the task had become significantly more complicated.

He reached up.

Took the skirt from her teeth.

Let it fall.

Her mouth free now — and what came out of it immediately:

”It hurts—” Low. Honest. The voice of a woman reporting plainly. ”It hurts very much—”

”Mm,” he said.

He lifted her.

The full, clean lift of both hands under her hips — raising her, the slow withdrawal of his cock from the grip of her, the wet, reluctant, body-remembering sound of her releasing him—

”Mnh~—”

—and then down.

PAH!!

”AAANGHH~!!♡♡—”

Down again.

The rhythm establishing itself with the unhurried, patient, completely deliberate cadence of a man who was not in a hurry and was going to do this at the pace he had decided and was communicating this through the grip on her hips and the height of the lift and the force of the pull-down.

”HAAHH~!!♡— NGH~!! NGH~!!—”

He looked at her.

At the crying face. At the tears. At the pain and the overwhelm and the underneath of the overwhelm — the thing she wasn’t acknowledging yet, the thing her body was doing independent of the pain.

”By the way,” he said.

His voice, conversational. Unmoved.

PAH PAH!!

”AAAHH~!!♡♡!! NGH~!!—”

”How much money do you need?”

She blinked.

The question arriving through the pain and the sensation and the crying with the particular, disorienting quality of a reasonable question arriving at an unreasonable moment.

”I—” She gasped. ”My— my village— my brother—”

PAH!!

”HAAANGHH~!!♡—”

”How much,” he said. Patient.

”He needs— school fees— and medicine— our parents are gone— I send everything I earn— AAAHH~!!♡—there’s never enough— he’s eight years old— he’s—’

She lost it.

Not the thread of the sentence — she lost the thread of herself, the particular, dissolving sensation of a woman who has been talking and crying and being fucked simultaneously and has arrived at the moment where all three of these things stopped being separable.

PAH PAH PAAH!!

”AAANGHH~!!♡♡!! NNGH~!! HAAHH~!!♡—”

Viktor stood.

The motion carrying her with him — she was on him, around him, his cock inside her, and he stood from the stone bench and moved and she went with him and had no opinion about this because she had no available opinions left.

The grass.

The narrow strip of it along the back wall of the guild garden — real grass, damp with the night, the cool wet reality of it at her back when he lowered her there.

She was on her back on the grass.

Her wrists still bound behind her — awkward, uncomfortable, present.

He came down over her.