Chapter 66: Volume 1- [ - 67 ]
Eighty.
I stared at the number. Then at Seraphine — at the way her body shifted on the bedroll, the way her hips pressed together, the way her thighs rubbed against each other in her sleep, the unconscious motion of a woman whose body was running hot and whose mind was feeding the fire with dreams she would not admit to having.
‘You really want a fuck, huh, Seraphine?’
The thought was a crooked, amused thing, and it settled in my chest with the warmth of a secret. Eighty arousal — higher than the sisters, higher than Mirra, higher than Elwen, who had my cum still in her mouth. The woman who projected the image of the disciplined, untouchable warrior was, beneath the silver armor and the military bearing, the horniest woman in the room.
But arousal did not mean consent. It did not mean she would spread her legs because I asked. Seraphine was a noblewoman, a warrior, a woman whose willpower was forged in the crucible of combat and noble expectations. Her body wanted what it wanted, but her mind — her mind was a fortress, and the gates were barred with duty and pride and the ferocious, brittle pride of a woman who would rather burn than admit she wanted to be touched.
I needed a key. And I had one — the memory of what she had seen. The night in the forest, when she had watched me fuck Lira against the tree. The white substance on her armor. The knowledge that her friend Elwen had just sucked my cock in the corner of this very chamber. The accumulated, unprocessed weight of sexual exposure that had been building since the moment my towel slipped and she saw my cock for the first time.
She was embarrassed. Overwhelmed. Her internal voice — even in sleep — was a churn of conflicting signals:
‘She took it in her mouth. His — that thing — she put it in her mouth. Why? Why did she do it? She is a healer — she said she was checking — but she was on her knees — she was — the sound — the wet sound — and he held her head — and she — her throat — the bulge — I can see it in my mind — I cannot stop seeing it — that thick, crimson head, pushing past her lips, her jaw stretching, the way her eyes rolled when he—’
Even asleep, the thoughts tumbled. Eighty arousal. The fortress was under siege from within.
I looked at my point balance. One thousand four hundred and seventy-five points. The Serpent’s Whisper — the pheromone ability that would let me induce arousal in a single target within line of sight — cost one thousand five hundred points. Twenty-five points short.
‘Twenty-five points.’
I could purchase Shadow Step instead — twelve hundred points, instant short-range teleport, a combat ability that would serve me well against the boss behind that door. But the boss was a monster I already knew — an Orc Lord, if the original novel’s dungeon cataloguing held true. A level four boss. Strong, brutal, but manageable, especially with a tank of Seraphine’s caliber in the party. She could absorb the Orc Lord’s strikes. She could hold the line while I shot it. The combat ability was not necessary — not yet.
What was necessary was Seraphine. Her body. Her points. The three hundred per breast, the five hundred for her pussy, the thousand-point woman lying ten meters away with her legs pressed together and her dreams full of my cock.
I needed twenty-five points. And the sisters — milked as they were, their point values depleted to single digits per act — were still capable of generating that.
I moved. Quietly, carefully, the practiced silence of a man who had learned to navigate dark rooms without waking the wrong people. I crossed the space between my bedroll and Sera’s. Lay down behind her. The warmth of her body — the familiar warmth, the warmth I had claimed and shaped and trained — pressed against my chest.
She stirred. Her internal voice surfaced from sleep like a fish rising from deep water:
‘Master? His warmth — his chest — against my back — he is here — he—’
“Master, you arrived,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her body pressing backward against me, her ass fitting against my groin with the practiced ease of a woman who had spent a night being shaped to my body.
I leaned close. Breathed against her ear. “Give me the dagger.”
She looked at the weapon in her hand — the Veyne Ancestral Dagger, the one I had given her for the wolf cores. She had kept it beside her, clutched in her sleep, the way a child clutches a favored toy. She pulled it from its sheath and held it up.
I took the dagger. Then pushed her onto her back.
She trembled. Looked at me with wide, dark eyes. “Monster,” she whispered, and the word was not a protest — it was a term of endearment, the name she had begun to use when I did things to her that her rational mind could not reconcile with the word ‘lord’. “Others will look.”
I pushed her dress up. Her thighs parted — instinctively, the trained response of a woman whose body had been conditioned to open when my hand moved toward her legs. Her panty — white cotton, practical, already damp — was visible in the dim firelight.
I pushed the panty aside. Positioned the dagger — not the blade, but the handle, the smooth steel of the pommel, the leather-wrapped grip — against her pussy. The cold metal touched her inner lips, and she flinched.
“Wait — Lord — that is—”
She bit her lip. Muffled herself. Her hand clamped over her mouth as I pushed the handle inward, the steel sliding past her entrance, the cold metal contrasting with the wet heat of her insides. She tensed, her back arching, her free hand gripping my wrist.
“Nnngh — mmmph—”
I fucked her with the dagger handle. Slow, deliberate strokes, the leather grip sliding in and out, the pommel pressing against her front wall with each push. The sound — wet, soft, the liquid sound of a pussy being filled — was muffled by her hand and by the blanket I pulled over us.
‘Cold — it is cold — the metal — inside me — it is — it feels — strange — hard — not like his cock — different — the ridges of the leather — I can feel every ridge — every—’
The system chimed.
[ Object insertion (dagger handle) — 5 pts ]
Five points. Twenty to go.
I pulled the dagger out. Sera gasped, her pussy gaping slightly, the wetness visible even in the dim light. I set the dagger aside and pushed my trousers down. My cock — not fully hard, but stiff enough — emerged. I pressed it against her anal — the tight ring of muscle that had been stretched the night before and had recovered enough to resist.
She whimpered. “No — not there — please—”
“It seems your ass has recovered,” I murmured against her ear, and the dry humor was genuine — the practical observation of a man noting the maintenance schedule of his tools.
“No — it is healing — due to you — please, not in the—”
I pushed. The head breached the ring, and she cried out, her hand clamping harder over her mouth, her body going rigid. I pushed deeper — one inch, two, the tightness exquisite, the walls clenching around me with the desperate, involuntary grip of tissue that had not yet fully recovered from the last invasion.
“Mmmph — nnngh — HAAANGH—”