Chapter 62: Volume 1- [ - 63 ]
She stopped. Realized what she had said. Looked at me with an expression that was half-embarrassed, half-apologetic.
“I — I am sorry. I did not mean to — your family’s technique—’
“Do not apologize,” I said. “It is good to hear that the Durren techniques survive. Even if the family does not.”
The moment held. Seraphine’s internal voice was a murmur of connection — a shared history, a common ground, the thin thread of the Durren name linking them in a way that transcended rank and circumstance.
‘He is Durren. Through his mother. And the shield technique — he recognized it. He knew the principle. He is not just a lord. He is—’
The seed was not the only thing growing.
The boss door was massive — ten meters tall, iron-banded, carved with symbols that glowed faint red in the dungeon’s ambient light. It stood at the end of the seventh floor, the corridor widening into a chamber that served as an anteroom, the ceiling rising to accommodate the architecture of something built by hands that were not human.
We stopped. Assessed. The boss was behind the door — the map indicated a corrupted beast of some kind, a creature that had been nesting in the dungeon’s heart, feeding on the corruption, growing. The level four rating meant it would be challenging but not lethal, not for a party that included a tank of Seraphine’s caliber and a healer of Elwen’s skill.
But we were exhausted. Seven hours of combat. Seven floors of monsters. The sisters could barely stand. Mirra was shaking. Even Seraphine’s movements had slowed — the weight of the armor, the accumulated fatigue of a dozen fights, the mental drain of sustained alertness.
“We rest,” Seraphine said. “Night. We hit the boss in the morning, when we are fresh.”
No one argued. The camp was set in the anteroom — bedrolls laid out, the fire built from the dungeon’s dead wood and Elwen’s spark spell, the smoke drawn upward through a crack in the ceiling that the ancient architects had designed for exactly this purpose. The boss door loomed at the edge of the firelight, its carved symbols pulsing with slow, malevolent patience.
I lay on my bedroll. The sisters arranged themselves on either side — their heads on my thighs, their bodies curled against my legs, the bedsheet draped over us. Beneath the sheet, I opened my trousers. My cock — semi-hard, the proximity of the sisters’ bodies and the memory of the hero-party women’s point values stirring it to life — emerged.
Sera found it first. Her mouth — practiced now, trained by a night of marathon fucking and a morning of obedient service — closed around the head, her tongue moving in slow, quiet circles. Below her, Lira’s lips found my balls, sucking one testicle into her mouth, her tongue rolling the weight.
Both sisters worked in silence. No moans, no gasps, no sound — just the wet, soft sounds of mouths on flesh, muffled by the bedsheet, hidden by the darkness.
“Gllck — mmmh—”
“Slurp — nnngh—”
I lay back. Closed my eyes. Let the mouths work. The system chimed softly — minor points, trickling in, ten points here, fifteen there, the steady drip of a faucet that would not fill a pool but would keep the water moving.
‘His breathing has changed,’ Sera’s internal voice noted, her mouth never stopping. ‘He is relaxing. I am doing it right. The rhythm — slower, deeper — the way he taught me. I am—’
‘I missed this,’ Lira’s internal voice was a warm, contented murmur, her lips wrapped around his ball, her tongue tracing the seam. ‘His balls. The weight. The smell. Two days without him and I — I needed this. I needed—’
The footsteps were soft. Elven. I heard them before I saw the shadow fall across the bedsheet.
“Why are they sucking your penis?”
The words were direct, clinical, embarrassment or accusation. The voice of a woman who had encountered a biological phenomenon and wanted to understand it.
Both sisters flinched. Sera’s mouth tightened on my cock, her teeth grazing the shaft, and I placed my hand on her head — firm, stilling, keeping her in place. Lira froze, her mouth full of my testicle, her eyes wide.
I looked up. Elwen stood over us, her green eyes reflecting the firelight, her head tilted at the inquisitive angle I had come to recognize as her cataloguing mode. Her wand was in her hand, the tip dimmed, and her robes were rumpled from sleep. She had woken, seen the sisters’ heads moving beneath the bedsheet, and walked over to ask.
“Thought finally caught you,” I said, and my voice was calm, amused, the voice of a man who had been expecting this conversation and was prepared for it. I did not cover myself. Did not push the sisters away. Let Elwen see the shape of Sera’s mouth on my cock, the movement of Lira’s head at the base.
“They are trying to take out the white fluid,” I said, and the words were precise, chosen for maximum impact on a mind that operated in clinical, biological terms.
Elwen’s eyes widened. “The white fluid. You mean — the substance that was on Seraphine’s armor. That was — seminal fluid. Male ejaculate. And they are — extracting it? Orally?”
“Indeed.”
‘If that is the case,’ Elwen’s internal voice was a rapid cascade of biological analysis, ‘then the oral extraction method is suboptimal. The seminal fluid is produced in the testes — which the brown-haired one is attending to — and expelled through the urethra during ejaculation. Oral stimulation of the glans and shaft can induce ejaculation, but the efficiency depends on technique, pressure, and the male’s individual arousal threshold. I wonder if—’
“Why did you not give it to other women?” Elwen asked, and the question was genuine, curious, the question of a woman who was mapping the social dynamics of human reproduction and encountering a gap in her data. “You said you do not.”
“I do not,” I confirmed. “It is something only a woman deserves to get who sucks my thing.”
‘Only a woman who performs oral stimulation,’ Elwen catalogued. ‘So the distribution of seminal fluid is conditional on the recipient performing the extraction. This is — a reciprocal arrangement. Biological exchange. The male provides the fluid, the female provides the stimulation. But why? What is the biological purpose? The fluid contains spermatozoa, which are for reproduction, but oral extraction does not lead to reproduction. So the purpose is — recreational? Social? A bonding mechanism? The texts at the Academy did not cover—’
“Can I see it for once?” Elwen asked, and the question was so direct, so free of social awareness, that it almost made me laugh. “I want to check if it is poisonous.”
‘Poisonous,’ her internal voice continued. ‘The substance was on Seraphine’s armor, and she exhibited elevated physiological responses — flushing, dilated pupils, increased respiration. These could be symptoms of contact with a toxic substance. If the seminal fluid contains compounds that affect the nervous system—’
“If you want to check if it is poisonous,” I said, and my voice was slow, deliberate, the voice of a man laying bait, “then why do you not just drink it? You are a healer. Nothing will happen to you.”
Elwen considered this. Her head tilted further — the angle approaching forty-five degrees now, the physical manifestation of a mind processing data at high speed.
“Indeed,” she said. “I am a healer. My resistance to toxins and biological contaminants is enhanced by my training. If the fluid is poisonous, I would be the optimal test subject.”