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

Chapter 793: Chapter 792- Say ’Ahhhh’

Her head was between my thighs. Her glasses were off — set neatly on the nightstand, folded, the lenses cleaned. Her brown hair, loose and tangled from the night, spilled across my stomach and legs. Her lips — full, soft, ink-stained at the corners — were wrapped around the head of my cock. Just the head. Her tongue — broad, wet, inexperienced but enthusiastic — swirled in slow, deliberate circles around the ridge.

She looked up. Our eyes met. Her cheeks were crimson — the blush visible even in the morning light. But she didn’t stop. Her lips tightened around the head. Her tongue found the slit. She sucked — a gentle, careful pull, the suction creating a soft popping sound.

”Good morning, husband,” she said. The words came out muffled — spoken around my cock, the vibration traveling through the head and into my spine. She pulled off with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting her lower lip to the tip. ”I — I hope I did it correctly. I read about it in — in the romance novels. The ones I — I told you I didn’t read. I lied. I read them. Quite extensively.”

She looked away. The blush deepened.

”In the novels,” she continued, her voice small, academic, the tone of a woman presenting research findings on a topic she found deeply embarrassing, ”a wife serves her husband in the morning. Like this. Before he wakes. It’s described as an act of — of devotion. Of gratitude. The heroine takes her husband’s — his — into her mouth and —”

”Oh, indeed, indeed,” I said.

The family catchphrase. It had infected me. I couldn’t stop saying it. It was like a disease — a verbal tic that had burrowed into my brain and set up permanent residence.

I chuckled. My hand found her hair — soft, tangled, the brown strands sliding through my fingers. I gripped. Not gently. My fist closed, pulling her head back, exposing her throat. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted.

I slammed.

My cock drove into her mouth — past the lips, past the tongue, past the point where she’d been carefully sucking, and straight into her throat. Five inches. Six. Seven. Her throat bulged — the outline of my cock visible through the skin of her neck, the shaft pushing through the narrow passage, the walls stretching around my girth.

”GLLMMPPH—!!”

Her eyes rolled. Her hands flew to the sheets — gripping, clawing, the fabric bunching in her fists. Her body jerked. Her back arched. Her legs kicked beneath the blanket. But she didn’t pull away. She took it. Her throat spasmed around me — the muscles contracting, releasing, contracting again, the involuntary reflex of a woman whose esophagus was being filled with ten inches of cock for the first time in her life.

The sensation was incredible. Her throat was slippery — warm, wet, the saliva coating my shaft in a thick, slick layer. The walls were tight — tighter than her pussy, the muscles designed for swallowing creating a rhythmic, pulsing grip that massaged my cock from base to tip. Each contraction squeezed me — the pressure building, the friction increasing, the heat of her body radiating through the thin lining of her throat.

I held her there. Seven inches deep. Her nose pressed against my pelvis. Her chin touched my balls. Her throat worked around me — the swallowing reflex firing continuously, her body trying to process the intrusion, the muscles rippling up and down my shaft in waves.

I pulled back. Thrust.

Pah Pah PAH!

”GLLMMPH—!! GLLM—!! HMMMPPH—!!”

Her tears fell. Running down her temples, into her hair, onto the pillow. Her hands gripped the sheets so hard her knuckles went white. Her body shook — not from resistance, but from the overwhelming sensation of being throat-fucked for the first time. She was crying. She was letting me. Her mouth — that brilliant, argumentative, theory-reciting mouth — was wrapped around my cock, and she was taking every thrust with the desperate submission of a woman who had decided, somewhere between the first orgasm and the tenth, that this was what she was made for.

I fucked her face. One hand in her hair, the other braced against the headboard. My hips moved — slow, deep, deliberate strokes that pulled all the way out to the head and drove all the way back to the root. Her throat accepted each thrust — the passage loosening slightly as her body adapted, the gag reflex fading, the muscles learning to accommodate.

And then — the system.

The blue window appeared in my peripheral vision, translucent, crisp, the text sharp:

[BREEDING REBATE — 100x MULTIPLIER ACTIVATED]

[Source: Vespera Thorne, Headmistress of the Royal Academy]

[Processing abilities...]

A list materialized. Long. Dense. Each entry a line of text, each text a power, each power multiplied by one hundred.

[Soul Resonance Mapping — 100x acquired]

[Necromantic Anchor Synthesis — 100x acquired]

[Cognitive Substrate Analysis — 100x acquired]

[Spiritual Plane Navigation — 100x acquired]

[Death Energy Manipulation — 100x acquired]

[Undead Command Protocol — 100x acquired]

[Soul Fragmentation Detection — 100x acquired]

[Resonance Harmonic Generation — 100x acquired]

[Mana Circuit Reconstruction — 100x acquired]

[Shadow Lord Necromancer Class — 100x acquired]

The list continued. Dozens of abilities. Each one Vespera’s — the product of her three years of research, her theoretical frameworks, her academic brilliance. And each one multiplied. Amplified. One hundred times more powerful in my hands than they had ever been in hers.

I smirked.

The Shadow Lord Necromancer class — the same class Vespera would have developed in my past life after being framed, after her family was executed, after she turned to necromancy in desperation. The same power that had made her one of the most dangerous women in the kingdom.

Mine now. One hundred times stronger.

I looked down at her. Her face — tear-streaked, flushed, her mouth stretched around my cock, her throat bulging with each thrust. She had no idea. No idea that the man fucking her throat had just stolen every ability she would ever develop, multiplied them, and made them his own.

The thought made me harder.

I slammed deeper. Her nose crushed against my pelvis. My balls tightened. The pressure built — the familiar heat in my spine, the tightening in my core.

I came.

The first rope hit the back of her throat — thick, hot, massive. She gagged. Her eyes went wide — wider than I’d ever seen them, the pupils blown, the irises vanishing behind the dilation. The second rope followed. The third. Each one pumping directly into her esophagus, the cum filling her throat, backing up into her mouth. Her cheeks ballooned. Her body convulsed.

She was choking. The cum — thick, copious, too much for her inexperienced throat to swallow — blocked her airway. Her face went red. Then purple. Her hands, which had been gripping the sheets, went limp. Her eyes — rolling, unfocused — began to close.

Her body glowed green.

The healing magic surged from my hand — still gripping her hair — and flooded her body. The green light repaired the damage — the strained throat muscles relaxed, the blocked airway opened, the oxygen returned. She gasped. Coughed. Cum — thick, white — spilled from the corners of her mouth, running down her chin, dripping onto the sheets.

”Drink it,” I said.

She looked up at me. Her eyes — wet, dazed, grateful — met mine. She swallowed. The movement was visible — her throat working, the muscles contracting, the cum traveling down her esophagus. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. Her adam’s apple bobbed with each swallow.

”Open your mouth.”