Chapter 80: Volume 1- [ - 81]
She pulled back. Her face — flushed, cum-splattered, wine-stained — looked up at me. “What — it tastes—”
I smiled. Let her lick my cock clean. Her tongue — obedient, devoted, the tongue of a woman who had been told she was going to be a wife — moved over the shaft, gathering the cum and the wine and the saliva, cleaning me with the careful attention of a healer tending a wound.
I laid her on the table. Rubbed my cock against her face — the limp shaft, the wet head, the residue of the orgasm — and let her lick my balls. Two days of licking. Her tongue — small, pink, eager — found the sac and worshipped it, her eyes closed, her internal voice a murmur of contentment.
I stood. Walked toward the back room. Called over my shoulder: “Do not you think you are acting too much, ignoring what is happening here?”
Silence. Then, slowly, the door opened. The bartender — the quintuplet — stood in the doorway, her face flushed, her eyes wide, her hands clasped in front of her apron.
“You knew I was awake,” she said.
“Of course I did,” I replied. “I just thought you were trying to act strong and would wake up.”
“Aren’t you — shameless — for a bar girl,” I said, and the words were a provocation, a test, the kind of statement that was designed to elicit a reaction.
“Do not call me that!” she yelled, and the reaction was immediate, fierce, the reaction of a woman who had been called that before — by the men in the alley, by the men who drank too much, by the men who thought that a woman behind a bar was a woman who could be touched.
Her internal voice was a flash of memory — the men in the alley, the word ‘bar girl’ spoken with the same contempt, the same sneer, the same assumption that a woman who served drinks was a woman who served everything.
I consoled her. The words were warm, gentle, the words of a man who understood. I told her about the town. About the roads. About the world that was dangerous for women who worked alone. I made her laugh — a small, surprised laugh, the laugh of a woman who had not expected to laugh tonight.
She told me about the town. About the Adventurer’s Guild — the one in Oren’s Hollow, the one that was always short on adventurers. About the quests that went unclaimed, the monsters that went unhunted, the village that went unprotected.
“Do you know someone in the Adventurer’s Guild?” I asked.
She nodded. “Indeed. The guild master is one of my friends. I know her well.”
‘Her.’ The word was a key. “She is a woman?”
“Indeed. She is. Why? What happened?”
I smirked. “They think I cannot get her.”
The bartender’s mouth opened. “Why do you — wait — I already heard it—” She covered her face, the blush spreading from her cheeks to her ears. “Your — the condition — the balls will burst if—”
“It is true.”
“That is — that is insane. That cannot be—”
“It is.”
She sighed. “You cannot have her. She is my friend.”
“Then can I have you?”
“You would need to compensate for it. At least the bar.”
Her face flushed. “Why would I compensate — damn it — just go away, you pervert.”
I chuckled. “Can I get a wine?”
She sighed. Poured. Asked the price. I took out a coin — a gold piece, more than the wine was worth — and threw it. The coin arced through the air and vanished into her cleavage, the gold disappearing between her breasts with a soft ‘tink’ against the fabric.
“What have you done—” She looked down. Tried to fish the coin from her dress. Her hands pressed against her cleavage, the fingers searching, the motion pressing her breasts together.
I watched. “Your nipples are brown. You must be from a village.”
She stumbled backward. “What are you looking at, you pervert—” Her face was crimson. She turned and ran, her footsteps fading into the back room, the door slamming behind her.
I stood. The healer girl — Mirra — looked up from the table, her face still wet with cum. “Where are you going?”
“Nothing. Just to make sure she is all right.”
Mirra’s internal voice was a murmur of concern and the faintest, barely visible flicker of jealousy. ‘He is going after the bartender. The brown-haired woman. He — after what we just — he said wife — he said—’
I followed the bartender. Through the door, into the back room — a small bedroom, a bed against the wall, a window looking out over the moonlit street. She was seated near the window, her face flushed, her hands in her lap, her breathing fast.
I closed the door. The click of the latch was a small, final sound.
I arrived behind her. Her eyes — brown, wide, the eyes of a woman who had heard the latch and knew what it meant — found mine in the reflection of the window.
I hugged her. From behind. My arms wrapped around her waist, my chest against her back, my chin on her shoulder. The hug was possessive, intimate, the hug of a man who was claiming territory.
My hand pulled her skirt up. The fabric rose — over her thighs, over her hips, the white panties appearing in the moonlight. My other hand found her pussy — the fabric of the panties, the warmth beneath, the slight dampness that the Pheromone Aura had already begun to produce.
I groped. My fingers pressed against the cotton, the pussy lips yielding beneath the fabric, the heat of her body radiating through the thin material.
She moaned. The sound was involuntary, torn from her throat by the Touch Amplification’s enhanced nerve response. “What are you doing?” Her face was flushed, her eyes finding mine in the reflection, her voice breathless.
“You look gorgeous,” I said, and the words were a Dirty Whisper, the hypnotic suggestion sinking into her subconscious. I kissed her. The French kiss — my tongue finding hers, the Tongue Mastery activating, every muscle controlled — made her eyes roll. The reflection showed it — the brown eyes going up, the white showing, the mouth opening under mine.
I pulled her toward the bed. Slowly, one piece at a time, the clothes fell. Her top — unbuttoned, pulled down, the brown nipples appearing, stiff in the cool air. Her skirt — unzipped, dropped, the panties the last barrier. My clothes — the blood-stained shirt, the trousers, the smallclothes — joined hers on the floor.
I pulled her panties down. Her pussy — dark-haired, thick, the curls natural and untamed — was visible. The lips were full, the slit long, the clitoris peeking from the hood.
“Your pussy looks tight,” I said, and the words were vulgar, deliberate, the words of a man who was assessing rather than romancing. “I bet you will make men insane.”
She trembled. “Who — you did this — it is not some wine to make them like that.”
“Of course it is. Addicted.” I reached for the wine bottle — the one I had carried from the bar, the red liquid still half-full. I opened it. Poured.
The wine hit her pussy. The red liquid ran through the dark hair, over the lips, between the folds. It pooled on the bed beneath her, the stain spreading like a flower.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, her eyes wide, her back arching as the cold liquid hit her heated flesh.
I leaned between her legs. “Bon appétit.”