Chapter 892 - 891- A Cute Thick MILF

Chapter 892: Chapter 891- A Cute Thick MILF

The sharp-eyed one smirked.

"Come on. You can just go in those bushes, can’t you? No one walks this path before noon."

Rhea arched one thick brow.

"Well, how could you?"

They both laughed. The two women waved her off and continued down the path toward the kitchens, still talking. Rhea watched their figures grow smaller between the hedges, then stepped off the gravel into the deeper green.

The bushes here were old and dense, the sort that had been allowed to grow wild for decades.

She pushed through until the path was only a pale suggestion behind her, then stopped in a small natural hollow where the ground was soft and the leaves made a private curtain.

Her hands went to the hem of her dress.

She lifted it slowly, bunching the fabric at her waist, and revealed the heavy, soft curve of her lower belly, the thick thatch of dark hair that framed her sex, and the silver plug seated firmly between her cheeks—its rose base just visible when she shifted.

The nipple hooks she wore under the dress pulled gently with every breath; she had grown used to the weight, the constant reminder.

She widened her stance, boots planted, and let her bladder go.

A thick, yellow stream of piss arced out of her, splashing hot against the soil and the lower leaves. She watched it with half-lidded eyes, the sound steady and shameless in the quiet garden.

Her free hand rested on the soft fold of her stomach while the other kept the skirt high.

"Only if Master can be attracted to me..." she muttered under her breath, the words almost lost in the rush of urine. "This fat, barren body... these heavy tits that never fed a child... this hairy cunt that only opens for him now..."

The last of it dribbled out.

She gave a small, deliberate squeeze, forcing the final drops free, then simply stood there, skirt still raised, the silver plug gleaming, her piss-wet folds and thick bush on full display to the empty green.

A soft, low sound came from the other side of the bushes.

Not a footstep.

A slow, deliberate exhalation.

Rhea’s head turned.

Viktor stood between the leaves as if the garden itself had parted for him. Completely naked.

Morning light slid across the hard planes of his chest and the long, heavy hang of his cock—already rising, already thick, twelve full inches of dark, veined flesh that thickened further as he looked at her. A crimson flush coloured the head. Behind him a long, flexible tail hovered in the air, the tip curling once with idle interest.

His eyes moved over her without hurry: the big boots, the soft heavy thighs still parted, the wet, hairy pussy, the plug, the way her large breasts strained against the fabric she still held up.

Rhea’s face flooded with heat. She did not drop the skirt.

She bit her lower lip hard enough to leave a mark.

"Um... Master."

Her voice came out small and cracked, the careful dignity of a widow who had once managed a household reduced to a single, flustered sound.

Viktor stepped fully into the hollow. The tail drifted closer, brushing the edge of her raised skirt. His cock stood rigid now, the full length of it pointing toward the soft, piss-damp hair between her thighs.

He waited.

Viktor’s gaze stayed on the soft, glistening folds between her legs for another long second before rising to her face.

"What is your name?"

The question was calm, almost mild, the same tone he used when asking for a report on grain tariffs.

Rhea’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"Eh...? Heh...?"

Viktor tilted his head, patient as a man waiting on a slow clerk, while the widow’s brain visibly restarted itself somewhere behind her eyes.

’Rhea. Say Rhea. It is your own name, woman, you have worn it for forty years, gods, say it.’

"R... Rhea, Master." The word finally tumbled out. "Rhea. Of the laundry halls, Master. I... I am one of the maids, I was only..."

"Rhea."

He said it once, tasting it, and somehow it sounded like a brand being pressed into her skin. Her thick thighs, still parted over her own puddle, pressed together with a wet sound that undid the attempt entirely.

She reached down and tugged her skirt lower, a futile, belated gesture of modesty from a woman standing with a silver plug in her ass and a hairy, dripping cunt on display. The fabric caught on the wet hair between her legs and gave up.

’I waited for him. Every morning I dressed in these jewels and waited for him to notice me, me, a fat barren widow, and I told myself it was for the honor of serving the Master of Millbrook, and every single morning that was a lie. And now he is here, and he has seen everything, and I do not know whether to run or to kneel.’

Saint Olivia had told her about him. All the maids traded the stories at night over the mending. The benevolence of Master, Olivia called it, the way he healed the sick with a touch, the way he had raised women from nothing and given them a home, a family, a purpose. Rhea had built a small warm religion out of those stories.

The man standing naked in the bushes with a rising twelve-inch cock and a hovering tail was not the picture that religion had painted.

"You are the one they call the widow of the east wing," he said as he just got info live from Mira. "The one who volunteers for every night shift."

"Y... yes, Master. I do not sleep well. The work is good work."

"Hm." His eyes drifted, unhurried, over the weight of her chest, the sag of her belly, the silver rose glinting between her cheeks. "Lift your skirt again."

Her hands obeyed before her dignity finished voting. The hem rose. The soft belly, the dark wet bush, the glistening folds, all of it bared to the morning light and to him.

"Good girl."

He leaned down, hooked his hands under her thighs, and lifted.

Rhea’s boots left the ground. Her weight settled into his grip like she weighed nothing, her back pressed against the hedge, her legs hooked over his forearms, spread wide, held open in the air like a specimen. Her skirt bunched at her waist. Her arms flew around his neck for support, clinging, and her head fell back against the leaves.

"Master, wait... wait, please, I..."

His shirt grazed her, no, he was naked, it was his bare skin, the head of his cock nudging the soft hair of her mound, rubbing against her piss-damp bush, hot against her slit without entering. Her whole body jolted at the touch.

"Master!" she cried, high and cracked.

His face hovered near her chin. She lifted her head slowly, and her eyes met his, amber into her stunned grey. He smirked.

"What is your name?"

"You... you already asked me that, Master."

"I like hearing it twice."

"R... Rhea, Master."

He chuckled. One hand slid from her thigh around to the back of her, fingers finding the enormous soft swell of her ass, groping deep, sinking into the flesh until it welled between his knuckles. Her panties were stretched taut around her thick thighs, dragged down earlier to make room for the plug, and the elastic bit into her skin under his grip.

"Kiss me."

"Yes, Master."

She leaned forward, trembling, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Her lips lingered there, warm, reverent.

He chuckled. "Now that’s Cute."