Chapter 668 - 667- Viktor focusing on Little Hole

Chapter 668: Chapter 667- Viktor focusing on Little Hole

Millbrook appeared below them.

The town was glowing. Every lamp — every iron-wrought post, every vessel of the night — was lit. The amber glow washed over the cobblestone streets like warm honey. The town was alive — people moving through the streets, adventurers heading toward the dungeon, merchants closing their shops for the evening, the organized, peaceful, ’civilization-is-working’ activity of a town that had been built right.

Mira descended. She didn’t land at the gates. She didn’t approach from the road. She simply dropped from the sky — straight down, her bare feet touching the cobblestone path in front of the lord’s manor. The guards at the gate saw her. Their eyes went wide. Their mistress. Naked. Descending from the sky. Covered in — they squinted — was that dried milk on her stomach?

They looked away. Immediately. Professionally. The guards of Millbrook had learned — through months of exposure to their lord’s household — that some things were better left unobserved.

Nora landed behind her. The demoness’s feet touched the ground. Her ash-grey hair settled. Her barely-contained outfit drew stares from the guards — the strips of fabric, the visible underboob, the clear view of her thighs.

"By the way, Master," Nora said. Her voice was quiet — carrying only to Mira, not to the guards. "If I may ask — why are you naked?"

Mira was walking toward the manor door. She didn’t slow down.

"Hmm?"

"Isn’t it embarrassing?" Nora followed, her crimson eyes scanning the street. People were looking. Not many — the evening crowd was thin — but enough. A naked woman walking through the main street, followed by a barely-dressed demoness. The whispers started. "Those human soldiers must have seen you. Even though there are only maids in this mansion, it is still strange for you to roam around naked."

Mira stopped. Turned. Her green eyes found Nora’s crimson ones.

"Why does it matter?" she said. Her voice was casual. Conversational. The tone of a woman discussing the weather. "Those who laid eyes on me are already dead."

Nora blinked.

"Also," Mira continued, her hand reaching down to grope her own tit — the heavy, milk-filled mound deforming under her fingers, a thin stream of milk leaking from the nipple — "they couldn’t even get an erection seeing this body."

She squeezed again. The milk dripped. Her green eyes were flat. Matter-of-fact.

"No one can get hard except my husband looking at me." She released her tit. The heavy flesh settled. "Doesn’t that feel wonderful? I want it that way." Her eyes hardened. "No man can see me like this. If they do, they are dead."

Nora stared. At the naked woman. At the casual grope. At the flat, ’this-is-just-how-things-are’ delivery of a statement that would have made any other woman blush.

’She is a pervert,’ Nora thought. The assessment was immediate, instinctive, and accurate. ’My master — the ninth-circle archmage who just erased an army — is a pervert.’

But beneath the assessment — beneath the ’what-is-wrong-with-this-woman’ reaction — Nora felt something else. The casual confidence. The absolute certainty that no living man could see her body and survive. The power that backed the perversion.

’She is really too strong,’ Nora thought. Her crimson eyes followed Mira’s thick hips as the woman turned and walked through the manor door. The sway. The natural, heavy, ’I-am-a-woman-and-I-don’t-care-who-knows-it’ sway of wide hips and a thick ass moving through a doorway.

’My master is really too strong.’

The loyalty surged. The demon-kin instinct — the recognition of power, the biological drive to serve, the ’I-will-follow-this-being-for-eternity’ response — rose in Nora’s chest. She had served the Demon King. She had served the heavenly demon council. But never — in three thousand years — had she served someone who made her feel this.

’I will serve her for eternity,’ Nora thought. ’I will serve her, and through her, I will gain power, and through power, I will—’

The scream cut through her thoughts.

"AAAAHHH~!!♡♡!! YOUNG MASTER — PLEASE — THAT’S THE WRONG HOLE — AAHHH~!!♡♡♡!!"

The sound came from upstairs. From the lord’s chambers. A woman’s voice — high, cracked, broken by pleasure and pain in equal measure.

PAH! PAH! PAH! PAH!

The flesh-slapping. Rapid. Wet. The sound of hips driving into flesh, of skin hitting skin, of a body being used at a pace that no human male should be able to sustain.

"AAAAHHH~!!♡♡!! SLOW — SLOW DOWN — HAAAH~!!♡♡!! MY ASS — NOT THERE — YOUNG MASTER—!!"

PAH PAH PAAH PHACK!!

Nora’s body froze.

The pheromones hit her. The incubus energy — saturating the air inside the manor, leaking from the upstairs chambers like smoke from a fire — entered her nostrils. Her demon-kin senses — sharper than a human’s, more sensitive, more attuned to sexual energy — registered the concentration.

It was high. Very high. The level of ambient incubus energy that would take a full coven of succubi hours to produce, this manor was saturated with. It pressed against Nora’s skin. Seeped into her pores. Found the demon-kin biology that was, despite her heavenly rank, still partially demon — still partially responsive to sexual energy.

Her pussy tingled.

’No,’ she thought. Her hands clenched. ’No. Impossible. That bastard—’

But the presence. The energy signature. The particular, unique, ’I-have-felt-this-before’ frequency of the incubus pheromones.

’It cannot be.’

’It CANNOT be the same—’

Mira was walking upstairs. Casually. As if the screams and the flesh-slapping and the pheromones were background music. She reached the landing. Turned toward the lord’s chambers. The door was open.

Nora followed. Behind Mira’s shoulder. Her crimson eyes looked past the naked woman’s hair, past the thick shoulder, into the room.

And she saw.

The king-sized bed. The sheets — soaked, tangled, pulled halfway off the mattress. The pillows — scattered, dented, wet with fluid.

Helena.

On the edge of the bed. On her back. One leg hooked over Viktor’s shoulder, the other spread wide, her pregnant belly hanging to the side, the taut skin catching the candlelight. Her brown hair — the bun entirely undone — was spread across the sheets like a fan. Her face was the face. The slack-jawed, drooling, tongue-lolling, eye-rolled face of a woman being destroyed.

Her hand — her delicate, maternal hand — was grabbing the sheet. Clawing. The knuckles white. Her other hand was on her own tit — gripping the heavy, milk-swollen mound, the fingers digging in, the milk spraying in thin arcs with each impact.

Her tits were swinging. Up and down. The heavy, dense, milk-filled flesh lifting with each thrust and falling with each withdrawal. The dark nipples were stiff, leaking, the milk running down the curves in thin rivers.

PAH PAH PAAH PHACK!!

"AAAAHHH~!!♡♡!! NOT — NOT THERE — MY ASS — HAAANGH~!!♡♡♡!! YOUNG MASTER — PLEASE — SLOW DOWN—!!"

And between her legs —

Viktor.

His body — lean, pale, defined. The six-pack abs flexing with each thrust. The muscles of his back shifting beneath the skin. The incubus tail — scaled, prehensile — swaying behind him, occasionally lashing forward to touch Helena’s body, to trace her belly, to flick her clit.

His cock.

Twelve inches. Thick. Veiny. The shaft glistened with lubricant and fluids. He pulled out — slowly, the full length emerging from Helena’s stretched, gaping anal entrance — until only the head remained inside. The sphincter — the tight, pink ring — clenched around the tip, trying to hold him, failing.

Then he plunged.

PAAAH!!

"AAAAAHHH~!!!♡♡♡!!!"

The full-length thrust drove back in. Helena’s body bucked. Her pregnant belly shifted. Her tits slammed upward — the heavy mounds flying, the milk arcing. Her head lolled back. Her tongue extended. Drool ran down her chin.

"AAAAHH~!!♡♡!! IT HURTS — IT HURTS — BUT — HAAAH~!!♡♡♡!! DON’T STOP — DON’T—"

His voice.

"I did not expect to see you this soon... Nora..."