Chapter 930: You’ve corrupted your own weapon (R-18)

Yamato felt the blood rush to her ears. Her face, already flushed, turned burning red. Her eyes, which could barely tear themselves away from the previous scene, were now fixed on another sight: Vergil’s member—still semi-erect and glistening with Crymsaria’s fluids—resting against his thigh. It was the source of so much noise, so much pleasure, so much power. And he was offering it to her.

"And now," Vergil’s voice echoed again—a little clearer, a hint of impatience mingling with curiosity—"do you want to try, Yamato?"

She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. Her whole body felt like a taut wire, ready to snap. Shame sat like a hot weight in her stomach, but beneath it, something new and insistent pulsed. That throbbing ache between her legs, the heat his observation had ignited... it hadn’t faded. It had grown.

She couldn’t speak. Instead, her eyes met his—those silver eyes she had known for centuries, yet which now seemed to see through a new layer of her—and she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Yes.

A faint smile touched Vergil’s lips. Beside him, Crymsaria let out a low, weary laugh but said nothing, merely watching with heavy, interested eyes.

"Come here," he commanded, his voice soft yet unquestionable.

Yamato moved as if in a trance. She knelt on the bed between his legs, her lilac silk robe parting slightly. The proximity was overwhelming. His scent—mingled with theirs, with the musk of sex—was intense and intoxicating. And that... that part of him... was so close.

Vergil didn’t force her. He placed a hand gently beneath her chin, lifting her face so their eyes met once more.

"You don’t need to do anything complicated," he said, his voice a low murmur. "Just use your mouth. Learn the taste."

With a guiding touch, he directed her downward. Yamato closed her eyes, her heart pounding wildly. The first sensation was heat—a living, pulsing warmth against her lips. She hesitated, her ragged breath warming his skin.

"Open your mouth," he instructed, and she obeyed.

The touch of the tip against her lips was electric. It was salty, with a metallic, earthy flavor that was strange yet not unpleasant. It was his taste, mingled with that of others. It was the taste of what she had witnessed.

Vergil began to guide her, his hand firm yet gentle at the back of her neck. He didn’t force her; he showed her the rhythm, the pressure. Yamato, always a quick study, began to mimic him. Her movements were clumsy at first, her tongue uncertain. She could hear her own ragged breathing through her nose and feel his unique texture against her tongue—his weight filling her mouth.

A low groan escaped Vergil, and the sound made something deep within Yamato clench with pleasure. She was the cause of it. She—the sword—was eliciting a reaction from her master. Shame began to mingle with an intoxicating sense of power. She took more of him in, learning from her own instincts and the subtle adjustments his hands made to her hair and the nape of her neck.

"Like that," he growled, his voice rougher. "Good girl."

The praise warmed her from the inside out more than anything else. She moved with greater confidence, her mouth creating suction, her tongue exploring the raised vein along the underside. The taste grew more intense, the scent stronger. She could feel him growing harder, heavier in her mouth. Her rhythm turned frenetic, driven by a new, urgent need to please—to consume.

Vergil pulled her closer, his fingers tangling in her lilac hair. "I’m close," he warned, his breath ragged. "I’m going to come in your mouth."

Yamato didn’t think to pull away. She simply squeezed her eyes shut and quickened her pace—a willing, eager submission. With a final, guttural groan, Vergil pulled her firmly against him, and she felt the hot, salty rush at the back of her throat.

He released her immediately after the last pulse. "Spit it out," he commanded, panting.

Yamato looked up at him from her knees, her lips glistening and her eyes watering. Then, deliberately, she swallowed. A visible movement of her throat. She opened her mouth, wiping it clean to show it was empty.

For a moment, there was silence. Even Crymsaria’s heavy breathing seemed to cease.

Vergil watched her, his silver eyes narrowed in appraisal. Then, a slow, genuine smile—a rare sight—spread across his face.

"Well," he said, his voice heavy with a new kind of approval. "You’re quite the naughty little thing, aren’t you?"

Yamato looked away, her face burning—though not with shame this time. It was a flush of fulfillment, of belonging to him. She shrugged, trying to appear casual, but her voice came out as a husky whisper.

"It would be a waste... to throw away something so delicious that came from you, Master."

The statement, innocent in its raw honesty, hung in the air. Crymsaria let out a low, muffled laugh into her pillow. Nivara murmured something sleepy and incoherent.

Vergil reached out and pulled Yamato up—not with force, but with a possessiveness that made her stomach flip. He pulled her down to lie back and loomed over her.

"Last lesson, right?" he said, tapping his cock against the thin fabric of her lingerie, right over her pussy.

Vergil didn’t wait for an answer. His words were a statement, not a question. His weight pressing down on her was crushing, yet in a way Yamato found herself craving. The sheer fabric of her robe and lingerie were ridiculous barriers against that heat, that intent.

With a single-handed motion, he tore through the lace of her panties. The sound of fabric giving way made her shiver. The cool air of the room touched her exposed skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of his palm. He didn’t caress her; he claimed her, his large hand completely covering her mound, his fingers spreading to feel the wetness already soaking her folds.

"You’re already wet," he noted, his voice a satisfied growl against her neck. "Just from watching. Just from thinking about it."

Yamato moaned, unable to form words. Her body arched involuntarily, seeking the pressure of his hand. Her entire existence was reduced to that single point of contact, to the relentless, throbbing pulse between her legs.

He pulled his hand away. Yamato let out a moan of protest, but he silenced it with a brutal, possessive kiss. It was a kiss that didn’t ask for permission; it took. His tongue invaded her mouth, claiming it, making her taste the lingering flavor of him and of herself. Meanwhile, his hands were at work. He pushed her robe completely aside, exposing her small, firm breasts—her nipples already hardened and aching with anticipation. He pinched them—not gently—and the shock of pain and pleasure made her writhe beneath him.

He broke the kiss, his hot breath against her swollen lips. "Look at me," he commanded.

Yamato opened her eyes, clouded with desire. He was positioning himself, the massive, purplish head of his cock pressing against her entrance. She could feel every vein, every pulse. It was a threat. A promise.

"This is the part that hurts," he said, his voice almost clinical, though his eyes burned with a primal fire. "Only once. After that, you’ll be mine in a whole new way."

She tried to answer—tried to say she was ready, that she wanted this—but all that emerged was a hoarse whisper. She nodded, her fingers white-knuckled as they gripped the sheets.

Vergil wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t slow. With a firm, decisive thrust of his hips, he entered her.

The pain was blinding, sharp, and tearing. A strangled cry escaped Yamato’s throat, her eyes widening. It was like being pierced by a dull blade—a brutal, impossible expansion at her very core. She felt her body tear, give way, and then mold itself around him.

He paused, fully buried within her. Pain throbbed—an intense burning. But beneath it, beneath the shock and the invasion, there was something else. The sensation of being filled. Of being pierced by her master’s very essence. It was a violation, yet it was a claim that something deep within her—something that had never been human—had craved for centuries.

Vergil remained motionless, his muscles trembling with the effort of holding back. He watched her face, saw the tears spilling from the corners of her eyes, saw the pain and confusion.

"The pain passes," he murmured, his voice strangely gentle. "Focus on me. On me inside you."

He began to move. Slowly at first, allowing her body to adjust, letting the searing pain shift into a throbbing discomfort. Each movement tore a little more of what remained of her virginity, spreading it like a moist seal between her thighs.

Yamato began to adapt. The pain didn’t vanish completely, but it shifted, transformed. Each thrust now carried a new kind of sensation—a rough, deep friction that ignited nerves she hadn’t known she possessed. A low moan, unlike any sound she had ever made, escaped her lips.

"That," he growled, quickening the pace. "Feel it. This is what you are now."

He shifted the angle, arching over her, and suddenly the friction struck a spot deep within that made her world explode into white. It wasn’t an orgasm—it was too soon, too new—but a flash of pure sensory pleasure, so intense it eclipsed the lingering pain. She cried out, her body arching violently, her fingernails digging into his back through the silk of his robe.

Vergil let out a hoarse sound of triumph. He had found it. Now, his facade of control cracked. His thrusts became deeper, faster, more brutal. The bed creaked in protest. The sound of skin against skin—wet and obscene—filled the air. He dominated her completely; every movement was a reminder of his power, of his possession.

Yamato was lost in a storm of sensations. Pain, pleasure, fullness, submission—it all merged into a single, overwhelming experience. She no longer thought. She only felt. And what she felt was him. Everywhere. Filling her, defining her, remaking her.

"You are mine," he roared, his breath a hot rush against her ear. "My sword. My woman. Mine."

She couldn’t have disagreed even if she wanted to. Her body responded to his every command; every moan, every gasp was an involuntary confirmation of his words. He gripped her thighs, spreading her wider, and drove into her with a final, furious intensity. Yamato felt something building deep within—an unbearable tension in the innermost recesses of her womb. It wasn’t like the climax she had witnessed in others; it was something more primal, inextricably linked to the act of violation itself.

With a final, stifled roar, Vergil thrust deep and went rigid. She felt the hot, powerful pulse within her—a surge of heat that seemed to sear her very core. It was the ultimate sensation of possession: physical and undeniable.

He collapsed onto her, his weight crushing yet welcome. Both were panting and drenched in sweat, joined in the most intimate way possible. The scent of sex and blood—*her* blood—hung heavy in the air.

Slowly, reality returned. The throbbing pain between her legs. The sticky, wet sensation. His weight. And, underlying it all, a strange, profound satisfaction.

Vergil propped himself up on his elbows, gazing down at her face. He traced his thumb over one of her tears, then brought it to his lips to taste it.

"Yamato," he said, and her name had never sounded like that before—hoarse, possessive, satisfied.

She looked up at him, her eyes still glazed. "Master," she whispered, and the word held an entirely new meaning.

Beside them, Crymsaria let out an exaggerated sigh. "Finally. Now she’s properly ruined. Congratulations, Vergil. You’ve corrupted your own weapon."