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

Chapter 610: Chapter 609 - Fear of the Commander of the First Company

Against the cloth, against the binding, the stiff, prominent, aching peaks pressed outward. The fear had engorged them — the blood rushing to the tissue, the adrenaline triggering the involuntary response, the dark, pinkish areolas visible through the thin fabric.

Viktor noticed.

His eyes dropped.

From her face to her chest. The strip of cloth — the ridiculous, inadequate, purely decorative wrapping that the Catorian family’s captain wore as a bra — was straining. The massive, heavy, bull-kin tits behind it were heaving with each terrified breath, and the nipples — stiff, engorged, prominent — were pushing against the fabric with the particular, urgent insistence of flesh responding to a stimulus it could not control.

He looked closer.

Through the cloth, the nipples were visible. Not just the shape — the detail. The dark pink color. The particular, unusual proportion of them — the areolas wide, the nipples themselves large in comparison to the breast, the stiff peaks longer and thicker than what he had seen on Naro or Dara or the other women he had handled.

’What the hell?’ he thought.

His hand moved.

From the knife. Away from her throat. Downward. His fingers found the strip of cloth at her chest, his fingers tugging the fabric aside, pulling it away from her breast.

Her tit emerged.

The full, heavy, massive weight of it — the bull-kin flesh, dense and warm and trembling. The areola was dark pink, wide, the texture puckered and visible. And the nipple—

The nipple was strange.

Not the normal, stiff peak of an aroused or frightened woman. The nipple was large — disproportionately large for the breast, the stiff, erect flesh standing out nearly a full centimeter from the areola. The tip was swollen, the shaft thick, the entire structure looking almost like a small, stiff cock rather than a nipple.

”What are these?” Viktor said.

His hand closed around her tit.

Groping. Squeezing the heavy, warm, trembling flesh, his fingers sinking into the soft, dense, bull-kin tissue. The breast was real — genuine, heavy, the kind of tit that could feed a village. But the nipples were something else. Something he had not seen.

He pulled the other side of the cloth away.

The second tit emerged. Matching. The same massive, heavy, trembling flesh. The same dark pink areola. The same thick, stiff, disproportionately large nipple.

She trembled as he groped her.

The fear was still there — the body-shaking, bone-deep, animal terror. But something else was mixing with it now. The involuntary, physiological response to having her breasts handled — the blood flow increasing, the nipples hardening further under his fingers, the warmth spreading through her chest.

”What—” she whispered through the gag.

Her eyes were wet.

The tears had started — not from pain, not from the knife, but from the particular, overwhelming, helpless tears of a woman who was terrified and being groped and could not stop either from happening.

”Are you a virgin?” Viktor asked.

The question was blunt.

Clinical.

The voice of a man examining something and asking a diagnostic question.

The captain trembled.

The tears fell.

The trembling intensified — the particular, full-body, violent trembling of a woman who had been asked a question that cut through every layer of armor and bravado and reached the soft, vulnerable, terrified core beneath.

”Please,” she whispered through the gag. ”I’m sorry.”

The words were muffled, broken, the sound of a woman whose mouth was bound and whose voice was fighting through magic.

”I was just acting because Lady Evriana said so.”

Viktor’s hand stopped on her tit.

The violet eyes narrowed.

”You already know,” the captain continued, the words tumbling out through the gag, muffled but audible, the confession of a woman who had decided that whatever she was about to say was less dangerous than the silence. ”You are Viktor ktorian.”

The name landed.

Not Redwood. Catorian.

The family name. The bloodline name. The name that connected him to the count, to the matriarch, to the line of bull-kin warriors and demon-blooded royalty that he had been running from and toward his entire life.

”She ordered me,” the captain said. ”To seduce you. To make you fall for me. To bear your child.”

The words came faster now. The gag muffling them but not stopping them, the consonants softened, the vowels stretched, but the meaning clear.

”A child which she can use,” the captain continued, ”to claim the throne of the Duke.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow.

The darkness still pressed around them. The knife was still in his hand. The captain was still bound, still trembling, still crying. But his expression had shifted — from the flat, murderous calm to something more interested.

”Now that’s something interesting,” he said.

He released the gag.

Her mouth opened. The first full, unrestricted breath she had taken since the snapping of his fingers. The air rushed in, her chest heaving, her massive tits lifting with the inhale.

”Let’s hear it,” he said.

He grabbed her hand.

The binding on her wrists released — the magic dissolving, her arms falling free. She gasped, her hands coming forward, rubbing her wrists, the blood rushing back into her fingers.

He pulled her.

Away from the tree. Away from the camp. Into the forest — the dark, quiet, tree-shadowed depth of the woods, where the light of the campfires was a faint, distant glow and the sounds of soldiers were swallowed by the canopy.

The pond was small.

A dark, still body of water set in a depression in the forest floor, surrounded by moss-covered rocks and the roots of ancient trees. The moonlight — which had been filtering through the canopy in thin, silver patches — found the open space above the pond and poured down, illuminating the water and the surrounding ground with a pale, cold, ghostly light.

Viktor’s boots crunched on the leaves.

He pulled her to the edge of the water.

She was still trembling — the fear had not subsided with the release of the binding. If anything, the walk through the dark forest had deepened it. The darkness between the trees, the unfamiliar sounds, the hand on her wrist that she could not pull away from — all of it fed the particular, animal dread that had settled in her chest.

He pushed her down.

She fell — her heavy body landing on the mossy ground beside the pond, the soft, damp earth pressing against her bare back, her massive tits settling on her chest, the strip of cloth long since displaced, both breasts fully exposed to the moonlight.

He leaned over her.

His body pressing down, his weight pinning her, his face above hers. She could see him now — in the moonlight, in the pale, silver, ghostly illumination that turned his violet eyes into something otherworldly and his pale face into something beautiful and terrifying.

”Not now,” he said.

The words were a command. Not ’now’. Not yet. The interrogation first. The information before the act.

His hand found her tit.

He groped — the heavy, trembling, massive flesh of her breast filling his palm, the stiff, large, strange nipple pressing against his fingers. He squeezed, pulled, his fingers finding the nipple and tugging it.

She trembled.

”Tell me,” he said.

His hand moved down.

From her tit. Over her stomach — the defined, ridged, muscular belly of a bull-kin woman, the skin warm and taut. His fingers found the hanging cloth — the strip of fabric that barely covered her pussy — and pushed it aside.

His palm pressed against her.