Chapter 48: Volume 1- [ - 49 ]
The carriage moved.
I sat in the back, my legs spread, my head tilted against the cushioned wall, and I smiled the way a man smiles when he has done something terrible and gotten away with it. The merchant’s estate receded through the rear window — the stone walls, the broken gate, the dark stain on the cobblestones where goblin blood had pooled and dried. The house where a father had lived and died and where his daughters had been devoured. Not by monsters. By me.
My eyes slipped downward.
Sera knelt between my legs. Her dark brown hair — loose, unbrushed, still matted with dried cum from the night before — fell across my thighs as her mouth worked the head of my cock. She was dressed now, in a clean cotton dress I had found in the merchant’s wardrobe, but the neckline was torn — I had pulled it down that morning to expose one breast, the pink nipple stiff in the open air, and had not bothered to pull it back up. Her lips wrapped around the crown, her tongue moving in slow, tentative circles, her eyes closed.
Below her, lying on the carriage floor with her head propped on my other thigh, Lira attended to my balls. Her chestnut hair spilled across my knee as her mouth found the sac — heavy, swollen from eight hours of Viagra-fueled ejaculation — and she sucked one testicle into her mouth, her tongue rolling the weight of it, her lips pulling gently.
Both sisters. Dressed but violated. On their knees. In a moving carriage.
‘Master seems pleased.’ Sera’s internal voice was a murmur of cautious satisfaction. ‘His breathing has changed. He is relaxing. I am doing it right. Last night — the things he did — I thought I would die — but I did not die — and this morning, when he told me to suck him while the carriage moved, I did not even hesitate. When did I stop hesitating? When did—’
‘I missed this.’ Lira’s internal voice was simpler, rawer, more honest. ‘His balls. The weight. The smell. I missed having him in my mouth. Is that wrong? He is our master. Our lord. The man who—’
The thought cut off. It always cut off at that point — at the edge where memory threatened to surface, where the image of their father’s body and the knowledge of who had put it in the ground threatened to crash through the careful wall of rationalization they had built. ‘He saved us. He protected us. He took us in. He is our lord.’ The wall held. For now.
I ruffled Sera’s hair. Then Lira’s. The gesture was idle, proprietary — the way one strokes a dog that has performed a trick. Both women leaned into my hand, their eyes closing, their mouths never stopping.
The system chimed.
[ Dual stimulation (oral, simultaneous) — 15 pts ]
[ Sister pair bonus — ×1.5 ]
[ Total: 20 pts ]
[ Current balance: 1,160 pts ]
Twenty points. For two women sucking my cock and balls simultaneously. I stared at the number the way a man stares at a coin found on the street — technically grateful, fundamentally insulted.
One thousand one hundred and sixty points. A staggering sum by Level 1 standards. Enough to buy half the shop. But the Level 1 shop was garbage — minor buffs, trinkets, a pistol I already owned, an arousal meter I had already equipped. The good stuff — the real abilities, the combat skills, the stamina enhancements, the items that could actually keep me alive in a world where goblins roamed the fields and hero parties patrolled the roads — all of it was locked behind Level 2. And Level 2 required one thing: fuck a Heroine-tier candidate.
I leaned my head back. Closed my eyes. Let the mouths work.
Four women. Elira at the manor, pregnant and obsessed. Martha at the manor, vibrating and obedient. Sera here, sucking my cock. Lira here, sucking my balls.
Four women I could fuck whenever I wanted, whose bodies were available to me at any hour, whose pussies and mouths and asses were mine to use. The point generation was steady — a stream rather than a flood — but it was enough to sustain. Not enough to advance.
For that, I needed nobility. Or rather, I needed a Heroine-tier candidate — a woman whose narrative weight in the original story elevated her above the common population. A woman connected to the main plot, the hero party, the routes and bad ends that my meta-knowledge had catalogued. A woman like—
The carriage halted.
The sudden stop jolted me forward, and both sisters pulled away — Sera’s mouth leaving my cock with a wet pop, Lira’s lips releasing my balls. Their eyes were wide, identical in their panic.
“What happened?” I said, tucking my erection into my trousers and zipping them with a grunt — the shaft was still half-hard, the head pressing against the fabric in a way that was visible and uncomfortable.
The driver’s voice came through the front panel, tight with alarm. “My lord — wolves. There are wolves on the road ahead. A pack. We could be in danger.”
Sera and Lira trembled. Their hands found each other — fingers intertwining, knuckles white. Their internal voices were a matched pair of terrified whispers:
‘Wolves — not goblins but — wolves — the monsters — if they attack the carriage—’
‘We are going to die — we are going to die here — on this road — after everything—’
“Leave it,” I said to the driver. Then, to the sisters: “Stay inside.”
They nodded. Rapidly, desperately, their eyes already filling with the tears that had become their default response to any stimulus stronger than a loud noise. Sera reached for my arm. “My lord, please be careful—”
I pushed her hand away gently. Opened the carriage door. Stepped out.
The road was empty except for the wolves. A pack of six — large, grey, their eyes glowing amber in the afternoon light. They were the corrupted kind — the ones that had been touched by the miasma that seeped from the eastern hills, their bodies larger than natural wolves, their teeth longer, their fur matted with something dark and viscous. They were spread across the road in a loose semicircle, their heads low, their hackles raised, their growls a low rumble that vibrated in the chest.
I pulled the Serpent’s Fang from my waistband. The weight of it settled into my palm — familiar now, comfortable, an extension of my hand the way a sword was an extension of a knight’s arm.
“Bon appétit,” I murmured, and raised the pistol.
The first wolf lunged. I sidestepped — the motion smooth, my body remembering the footwork from training sessions I had never actually had but that the system had somehow wired into my muscles — and fired. The crack split the air, and the wolf’s skull erupted. It fell mid-leap, its body crumpling, its legs still running as it hit the ground and slid.
The second came from the left. I pivoted, fired. The bullet caught it in the chest, and the impact sent it spinning, a spray of red arcing through the air.
The third and fourth charged together. I fired at the closer one — a clean shot through the throat — and then the pistol was empty. The fourth wolf reached me.
I swung the Serpent’s Fang like a club — the heavy steel barrel cracking against the wolf’s skull with a sound like a hammer on a melon.