Chapter 894 - 893- Master wants to Know... How many Times?

Chapter 894: Chapter 893- Master wants to Know... How many Times?

She was still catching her breath when he turned her over.

His hands at her waist, rolling her, positioning her, and Rhea went onto her knees and elbows like a woman who had dreamed of exactly this for months without ever admitting it. Her skirt up over her back. Her enormous ass raised and presented to him, the twin moons of her cheeks spread wide, the silver rose of the butt plug gleaming between them.

She wiggled her hips, a small, wanton little sway, her hanging tits swinging beneath her, dripping milk onto the grass.

His hand came down and roamed over her ass cheeks, savoring the softness, and his fingers found the plug, tapped it, felt it shift in her, felt her clench around its stem.

"This," he said, "is interesting. What do we have here."

"Do you want to get fucked, My Lady?" He whispered into the grass, trembling with need. "With my cock?"

"It will be my pleasure, Master," she breathed.

He chuckled, and his hand came up and ruffled her hair, gentle, fond, the way one pats a good animal, and her whole body warmed at it.

"How about we start," he said, thumb circling the jeweled base of the plug, teasing it, watching her asshole clench and flutter around the silver, "with a story about why you are wearing a hot buttplug in my garden?"

The maid on the grass trembled from her rounded shoulders to her spread knees, and her answer came out in a soft, broken rush.

"It is the dress code of the house, Master. Every maid of the tower wears the plug through her shift. The circlet too. Lady Mira’s order, from the founding year. A maid of the young lord’s household is a maid kept ready at all hours."

She turned her head, cheek against the crushed grass, and looked back at him past the swell of her own raised hip. Her eyes were wet and shining, caught halfway between shame and hope, and her enormous ass stayed high in the air behind her, swaying in tiny helpless arcs.

"Every maid," Viktor repeated, thumb still circling the silver rose buried between her cheeks. "And are there maids who do not wear it?"

From the edge of the garden, sunning herself on a bench with her horned head lolled back and her legs sprawled open, Sophia answered without opening her eyes, in the bored voice of a woman reciting house rules she had memorized weeks ago.

"Some are. Those who have never tried, like some virgins. Like Elena. And some who have never yet been claimed but are virgins in it. The circlet tells the difference. A claimed maid wears the band. An unclaimed one wears the loose chain. Hers is banded, Master. She has been waiting a long while."

Victor looked down at the silver circlet on the maid’s brow. Then he leaned forward and bit it, teeth closing on the thin metal band, tugging her head back by it as she cried out, her whole spine arching, her hanging tits swinging and slapping together beneath her.

"Mm. Good bookkeeping," he said, releasing it. "Now. The rest of the story. You were married before you came here."

Her breath shuddered out of her. He watched her decide to tell it, watched the decision travel down her body in a wave of goosebumps.

"A year, Master. Married one year to a grain merchant’s clerk. He tried for a child many times and I did not quicken. He grew disappointed in me. Cold. He went to the garden one evening to clear his head, and what he saw there, whatever grief found him in that garden, it killed him. They said his heart stopped between the hedges." Her voice thinned. "I was a widow with no child and no trade at twenty four. Your caravans were hiring. Then the walls needed hands. Then the tower needed maids. I took the circlet because the pay was triple and the shame was cheaper than starving."

"I see," Victor said quietly.

And he did see. A woman whose body had been called a failure for a year by a man who died in a garden, now presenting that same body in a stranger’s garden with a silver rose in her ass and milk in her tits, hoping to be chosen, hoping to be told she was worth something after all.

He ran a hand up the small of her back, slow and heavy, and her trembling quieted under the pressure like a nervous horse under a firm rider.

"Your husband never put a child in you," he said. "Do you know why?"

"N... no, Master."

"I do." He parted her cheeks with his thumbs, gazing at the swollen, dripping mouth of her pussy, flushed dark and drooling strings onto the grass, the puffy lips clenching air around nothing. "Because his seed was never given a place worth staying. A womb is a soil, my lady, and no farmer blames the field when he plants with a dead hand. You were never the failure. You were never even tested."

She made a small ruined sound into the grass, and her pussy clenched again, harder, visibly, spilling another thick bead of want down her inner thigh.

"You will be tested now," he said.

He swung a leg over her back, facing down her body, and settled his weight onto her in reverse, his cock slapping down wetly between her shoulder blades, laying along her spine, hot and heavy as a branding iron. She gasped at the weight of his sack against the nape of her neck and then gasped again as his mouth descended on her raised pussy from above, his hands spreading her cheeks wide, his tongue dragging one long, flat, deliberate lick from her clit to the plug.

"AAHN~!!"

"Suck," he said against her folds, and his hips dropped, feeding his cock down past her lips.

She took him in with a muffled whine, her head craning back, her throat opening, and he began to move. He fucked her mouth like it was a pussy, unhurried strokes at first, his balls swinging down to slap against her nose and brow with every plunge, and all the while his mouth worked her cunt, sucking her inner lips in, rolling her clit, his tongue wriggling against her entrance and his thumb teasing the stretched rim around the plug.

Gluck. Gluck. Gluck. The garden filled with the wet chorus of it.

"Mmph... mmngh... hnnngh~!!"

She moaned around his cock and the vibrations ran down his shaft, and her hips began to push back into his face, humping the air, fucking his tongue, her juices smearing across his chin and mouth until his face shone with her. Her milk dripped steadily from both hanging nipples, tapping the grass in a quickening rhythm like rain on a tent.

He lifted his head, chin dripping, and looked at the swollen cunt offered up to him, spread and clenching and hungry.

"Not a virgin," he murmured, almost to himself, sliding two fingers in and curling them. "But not a woman either, not yet. Just a field waiting on its farmer. How many times did he fuck you, in that year? Fifty? Eighty? And never once like this."