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

Chapter 730: Chapter 729- The Marathon of a Sex Demon

’The demon girl. He is standing. Holding her. Her legs, around his waist. His tail, in the priestess. His cock, in the demon. His mouth, on the commander’s breast. He is a beast. A creature. Something that should not exist.’

’And I am wet. I am dripping. Watching. Bound. Gagged. I am dripping and I cannot stop and I do not want to stop and I hate myself and I want him and I—’

The night continued. The marathon, the endless, relentless, impossible marathon, went on. Viktor fucked. And fucked. And fucked. His cock, never softening, drove into woman after woman. His tail, vibrating, found pussy after pussy. His mouth, sucking, found breast after breast. His hands, groping, found flesh after flesh.

The women, all four of them, were destroyed. Rebuilt. Destroyed again. Their bodies, limp and compliant, were moved. Positioned. Used. Their pussies, swollen and raw, gaped. Their asses, stretched and sore, clenched on nothing. Their mouths, open and drooling, were silent except for the moans.

The sounds, the constant sounds, filled the mansion. The PAH PAH PAH of flesh. The AAAAHH of screams. The BZZZZ of the tail. The schlick schlick of wet cunts. The slurp slurp of mouths. The gulp gulp of swallowing. The creak creak of the bed. The drip drip of fluids.

The flesh slapping, the constant, rhythmic, PAH PAH PAH, was the heartbeat of the room. It did not stop. It did not slow. It was the metronome against which every moan was measured, every scream was timed, every orgasm was delivered.

Viktor stood. In the center of the bed. Surrounded by four women, all of them on their knees, all of them facing him, all of them looking up. His cock, still hard, pointed at the ceiling. The shaft, slick with cum and milk and saliva, glistened. His body, muscular and pale, was coated in fluids. His tail, hanging behind him, twitched.

The women worshipped. Their mouths, their tongues, their hands, found him. The priestess sucked his left ball. The commander licked his shaft. The aunt kissed his hip. The demon girl, her crimson eyes glowing, took the head in her mouth. Four women. One man. Four mouths. One cock. The slurp slurp slurp of a combined blowjob echoed.

They were drugged. Not by chemicals. By him. By the pheromones. By the power. By the cock. They were enchanted. Enslaved. Focused entirely on him. On his pleasure. On his cock. On his balls. On his body. They served. They worshipped. They adored.

Veilera, bound and gagged, watched the final act. The four women, the priestess and the commander and the aunt and the demoness, on their knees. Sucking. Licking. Kissing.

The man, standing above them, his hand on the demon girl’s head, his cock in the priestess’s mouth, his tail in the commander’s pussy, his fingers in the aunt’s hair.

’Beast,’ she thought. The word, the last word she would think before the pheromones claimed her completely, was both condemnation and surrender. ’He is a beast. And these women—’

”Slurp— slurp— mmph—”

The sounds were wet. Obscene. Filling the candlelit bedroom of the Catorian mansion like the steady drip of a leaking faucet that no one bothered to fix. Four mouths. Four tongues. Four women, naked and broken and sprawled across the silk sheets like discarded dolls, worked over Viktor’s body with the mindless devotion of worshippers at an altar.

Berenga was at his left hip. Her dark hair, matted with sweat and cum, clung to her face. Her thick lips, swollen from hours of sucking, were wrapped around the base of his shaft. Her tongue, broad and tired, dragged along the underside of his cock with each pull. Her cheeks hollowed. The suction was loud. Wet. The sound of a woman who had forgotten how to do anything else.

Evriana was at his right hip. The aunt, the matriarch, the woman who had carried political authority for decades, had her face pressed against his thigh. Her mouth, open and panting, was licking the shaft where Berenga’s lips couldn’t reach. Her tongue, pink and glistening, traced the thick vein that ran from base to mid-shaft. Her brown eyes, half-lidded and glazed, saw nothing but skin and muscle and the pulsing warmth of the cock she was worshipping.

Lucia had his balls. The demon girl, her ash-grey skin flushed dark with arousal, had taken one of his testicles into her mouth. The orb, heavy and full, stretched her jaw. Her crimson eyes were closed. Her scaled tail, the one she still possessed, was wrapped around his calf. Her hands, both of them, cupped the other testicle. Rolling. Squeezing. The motion was gentle. Reverent. The touch of a woman who had learned, through pain and pleasure, that this was her purpose.

Myra was at the head. The priestess, her black hair tangled and wild, had her mouth on the head. Just the head. Her lips, swollen and cracked from hours of use, formed a seal around the crown. Her tongue, which had blessed hundreds of faithful with holy words, was now circling the slit. Tasting the pre-cum. Lapping. The motion was small. Continuous. The reflex of a woman whose mind had been reduced to a single, repeating instruction: ’suck’.

”Slurp— slurp— slurp—”

The combined sound was symphonic. Four mouths, four rhythms, four different kinds of wetness. Berenga’s deep, sucking pull. Evriana’s licking slide. Lucia’s gentle, ball-sucking pop. Myra’s tip-circling lap. Together, the sounds merged into a single, continuous, obscene slurping that filled the room and seeped through the walls.

”Mmph— mm— mmph—” The mumbles came from between the slurps. Not words. Not sentences. The broken, ’I-cannot-speak-because-my-mouth-is-full’ sounds of women who had been reduced to orifices. Berenga’s mumble, deep and throaty, vibrated through his shaft. Evriana’s whimper, higher and more desperate, came between licks. Lucia’s hum, the demonic resonance, buzzed against his testicle. Myra’s pant, shallow and rapid, came between laps.

Their bodies, arranged around him like petals around a stamen, bore the evidence of the evening. Bruises. Bite marks. Handprints on thighs and hips and asses. Cum, dried and fresh, on bellies and chests and faces. Milk, thin white trails, on sheets and skin. The combined fluids of four women and one man, mixed and layered and smeared, made the sheets beneath them a ruined landscape of lust.

Baroness Veilera, still in her torn red dress, sat in the corner of the bedroom. On the floor. Her back against the wall. Her knees drawn to her chest. Her amber eyes, wide and unblinking, watched.

The pheromones, thick in the enclosed room, had been working on her for hours. Her pupils, dilated to black pools, consumed the amber of her irises. Her face, flushed crimson, burned. Her nipples, stiff and aching beneath her dress, pressed against the ruined fabric. Her thighs, pressed together, were slick with arousal that had been building since the carriage ride. Her panties, the silk that she had chosen that morning, were a wet, uncomfortable mess between her legs.

She had been watching. For hours. Since the carriage had arrived at the mansion and the door had closed behind her. Since Viktor had carried the priestess inside and the other three women had followed. Since the clothes had started coming off and the sounds had started filling the room.

She had watched him fuck all four of them.

Not sequentially. Not gently. He had taken them together. All four women, arranged and positioned and used. Berenga bent over the bed while Evriana sat on her face. Myra on her back with her legs over his shoulders while Lucia rode his tail. The combinations had shifted and changed like a choreographed performance of flesh and fluid. The sounds, the PAH PAH PAH of impact, the AAAAHH of screams, the SLURP of oral, the BZZZZ of his vibrating tail inside someone’s pussy, had filled the mansion for hours.

Veilera had watched. Had not moved. Had not spoken. Had not tried to leave. The pheromones, the incubus aura that saturated the room, had pinned her to the wall as effectively as any chain. Her body, responding to the chemical signals, had kept her in place. Aroused. Wet. Trembling. Unable to look away.

’They are beasts,’ she had thought. The thought had been repeating for hours. The same words, the same horrified realization, cycling through her mind like a stuck record. ’They are beasts. Animals. Mares in heat. And I am watching. And I am wet. And I cannot stop.’