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

Chapter 891: Chapter 890- Well Trained Maids

While they spoke, Sophia and Yuki had crept closer, drawn by their own hunger and the pheromones pouring off him, and had found his cock standing thick between his wives’ hips. Both women wrapped their fingers around it, stroking in slow, mismatched rhythm, and the rulers of a rising nation continued their territorial briefing between gasps and kisses and the slick sounds of hands working his shaft.

Mira’s milk let down over his fingers. Helena bit his shoulder gently through her sentence about grain tariffs. His hips lifted once, twice, and then he groaned low and spilled, thick ropes arcing up and splattering across Sophia’s lips and Yuki’s cheek and both women’s stroking knuckles.

Both women dropped instantly. Sophia knelt, Yuki knelt beside her, two well-bred young women on all fours like pets, and they licked his seed from each other’s faces and fingers and swallowed it, moaning softly, sucking each other’s fingers clean.

Mira watched them over her shoulder, chin on his shoulder, and chuckled.

”So you have trained them already. Aren’t you becoming a kinky husband?”

He chuckled. She reached down and massaged his balls, heavy and freshly emptied, rolling them in her palm with proprietary tenderness.

”I was just trying to help my wives become stronger a bit,” he said.

Mira’s hand stilled on his sack. Both wives looked at each other. He felt the pause, and looked between them, and the stirring in his loins was already returning.

”Where are my other wives? They are about to give birth, yes? All of them?”

The two women exchanged a glance of genuine conspiracy.

”We knew you were about to come,” Helena admitted.

”So they are hiding,” Mira said. ”Throughout the town. All of them.”

”Hiding?” His eyebrow rose.

”You know how they hate you,” Helena said sweetly, ”for not arriving on time.”

He breathed out through his nose. ”Who is going to give birth soon?”

They looked at each other again, and Mira counted on her fingers, grinning.

”Bella. Kaida. Elara. Olivia. And, if you fuck her well enough... Vivian, too. Fufufu...”

He stood, dumping both wives gently off his lap onto the grass, and stretched.

”Find them. Let’s go for a hunt.”

Mira rose, nightgown clinging, and glanced sidelong at the one woman in the garden still wearing clothes, who stood frozen between the hanging vines and the nursing ruler and the kneeling students, understanding nothing.

”But what to do with that woman?”

Lyssa’s mind, at that moment, was a burned library. She had thought him a professor. Then a banished nobleman working a long revenge against his ex-fiancée. Then possibly a reincarnated ancestor of legend. And here he stood in a private garden where women who commanded armies hung men from trees over crushed roses, where his wives governed a nation from his lap, where his month-old sons corrected ledgers and leapt from windows.

She was not a woman easily frightened. She was, at present, entirely overwhelmed.

”Give her some jewelry,” Viktor said.

He snapped his fingers and vanished. Both wives, dumped on the grass, landed on their soft bottoms and laughed.

”You always do that,” Helena complained, rubbing her rear.

Through the open window above, two small figures leapt, one after the other, nightshirts fluttering, and landed neatly on the lawn without a stumble. The elder twin carried a polished wooden box under his arm.

”Dear mother,” he said, adjusting his spectacles, walking the box over to Lyssa. ”This is for them. Indeed.”

Lyssa stared down at the baby. The baby stared up at her, waiting, polite as a bank clerk. She took the box with numb hands, and the twins bounded away toward the tower, arguing about a caravan manifest.

Her knees gave. She sat down hard on the grass, box in her lap, and looked at the sky, the impossible tower, the impossible city, the impossible everything.

”What,” she said to no one, ”is my life.”

Mira stood over her and took the box back, opening the lid with ceremony.

”These are the jewels you have to wear.”

Lyssa peered into the box, expecting rings, a necklace, a brooch, some quiet acknowledgement.

”What? Jewels? I... would thank you.” Her voice trembled with the confusion of receiving a gift from a woman who milked herself into her husband’s mouth in public. ”I do not even know what to say. Thank you, and...”

She looked down, and her eyes trembled.

Gold. Little gold, delicately plated nipple hooks, gleaming in the sun. Beside them, a slender silver plug, smooth and jeweled at the base. Chains. Clasps. A full set of shining ornaments whose purposes assembled themselves in her mind one by one, each more obvious than the last.

”What are these?” she croaked.

Mira smiled the smile of a woman who had worn her own set under her nightgown all morning, and snapped the box shut.

”These are the jewels which maids of this place wear daily, in wait, to serve their master. You see.”

The word landed in the garden and echoed off the tower walls.

”What...” Lyssa’s voice climbed an octave and cracked. ”Maids?!”

The garden still rang with Lyssa’s cracked protest when Viktor was already gone.

Mira only smiled, tucked the box of shining metal under one arm, and offered the stunned noblewoman a hand up from the grass.

”Come along. You’ll understand the uniform better once you’ve worn it a day.”

Lyssa did not take the hand.

Somewhere beyond the outer wall, three women walked the long gravel path that bordered the eastern rose gardens and the deeper, wilder hedges that still belonged to the old estate.

One of them was thick through the hips and thighs, the sort of solid, heavy-breasted build that filled a pair of high black boots to the calf and made the leather creak with every step. She wore a simple dark dress that ended just above those boots, the fabric already a little damp at the hem from the morning dew.

A widow’s ring still sat on her left hand; the finger beneath it had long since forgotten the weight of a husband’s touch. She had never carried a child to term.

The midwife had said the womb was closed, and after the third loss she had stopped hoping.

Her name was Rhea.

The other two walked slightly ahead, still chuckling over something she had said.

”...and the perfume stall on Millbrook’s lower street,” Rhea was saying, voice low and warm, ”the one with the glass bottles shaped like teardrops. The owner keeps a reserve bottle of the dark amber for me. I can still get there in under an hour if the gates are open.”

One of the others—slender, sharp-eyed, a former lady’s maid from the capital—glanced back over her shoulder.

”Which colour was the plug this morning, then?”

Rhea’s mouth curved. She gave a soft, private chuckle that made her heavy breasts shift under the dress.

”Premium quality, you see. The silver one with the little rose at the base. The one that sits deep and stays quiet until someone decides it shouldn’t.”

She sighed, the sound almost wistful.

”Only if Master looks at it.”

”Damn you,” the third woman laughed, shaking her head. ”You say it like you’re already wet just thinking about him noticing.”

Rhea turned on her heel, the big boots planting firmly in the gravel.

”I’m going to freshen myself.”