Chapter 67: Volume 1- [ - 68 ]
The last sound escaped — too loud, too sharp, the sound of a woman being penetrated against her will and failing to suppress the cry. It cut through the silence of the anteroom like a blade.
Bodies moved. Mirra jolted upright, her eyes wide, her hand flying to her satchel — the healer’s instinct, the reach for bandages and potions. Elwen’s eyes opened, green and alert, her hand finding her wand. Both women looked toward the source of the sound.
“What happened?” Mirra whispered, her voice thin with fear.
I lay still. Kept my eyes closed. Let Sera’s body — still impaled on my cock, her back pressed against my chest, the blanket covering us from the waist down — go limp beneath me. Her internal voice was a shriek:
‘They heard — they heard me — oh gods — they are looking — they—’
“It is nothing,” I said, and my voice was groggy, slurred, the voice of a man who had been woken by noise and was annoyed about it. “Go back to sleep.”
Mirra looked at us. At the blanket. At the shape of our bodies — two people lying close, the kind of closeness that could be mistaken for innocent if one did not look too carefully. She blushed. Looked away. Lay back down.
Elwen did not look away. Her green eyes found the wet sheen on the dagger handle that lay beside the bedroll. Her internal voice catalogued:
‘Seminal fluid and vaginal secretions on the dagger handle. The moisture pattern suggests recent insertion. Combined with the vocalization — a cry of pain or pleasure, acoustically indistinguishable — the conclusion is clear. He is copulating with the brown-haired sister again. The frequency of their reproductive activity is remarkably high. The male refractory period in humans is typically—’
She looked at my face. At my closed eyes, my relaxed breathing, the posture of a sleeping man. Her brow furrowed.
‘He appears to be asleep. But the acoustic evidence suggests otherwise. Is he — performing sleep? Why would—’
The thought was interrupted by another sound — from Seraphine.
The blonde warrior had not woken from the initial cry. She had been awake the entire time — had been awake since before I touched Sera, her internal voice a torrent of awareness that she had been too paralyzed to act on:
‘He is doing it again. Right there. Ten meters from us. He is — I can hear — the wet sound — the cry — and he is — inside her — that thing — that cock — the one I saw — the one Elwen had in her mouth — he is putting it in—’
Her arousal meter spiked. Eighty-five. Ninety.
‘I cannot — I cannot be here — I cannot listen to this — I cannot — my body — the heat — between my legs — it is — I need to — I cannot—’
She sat up. The blanket fell from her shoulders, revealing the under-tunic clinging to her body, the outline of her breasts visible through the sweat-damp fabric. Her face was flushed — deeply, thoroughly, the red reaching from her cheeks to her collarbone. Her yellow eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, the hawk-gaze replaced by something wilder, something cornered.
“I am going to clear it!” she said, and her voice was too loud, too sharp, the voice of a woman who needed to move, to fight, to do anything other than lie on a bedroll ten meters from the sound of a cock entering a woman’s body.
She grabbed her armor. Started pulling it on — the greaves, the pauldrons, the gauntlets. Her hands were shaking, and the buckles refused to cooperate, and her internal voice was a cascade of panic:
‘I need to — the dungeon — the boss — I will kill it — I will clear this place and we can leave and I do not have to be here and I do not have to hear this and I do not have to think about—’
“Wait — we should wait,” Elwen said, reaching for her friend’s arm. “We have not rested enough. The boss—”
“I am going!” Seraphine screamed, and the word cracked in her throat. She grabbed her shield, her sword, her breastplate — not wearing the breastplate, clutching it, too rushed to buckle it — and charged toward the boss door. Her gauntleted fist hit the iron. The door swung inward, the ancient hinges groaning, the darkness beyond swallowing her silhouette.
“SERAPHINE!” Elwen screamed. “STOP! You forgot your bracelet armor! Seraphine!”
But the door had already closed behind her, the iron booming shut, the sound echoing through the anteroom like a death knell.
I was on my feet before the echo faded. My cock — still hard, still wet with Sera’s ass — was tucked back into my trousers with a grunt. The Serpent’s Fang was in my hand. My mind was running calculations — not about Seraphine, not about her embarrassment, not about the fact that she had just charged into a boss room without her breastplate — but about the boss itself.
The original novel. The dungeon catalogue. Level four dungeon, seventh floor, eastern hills. The boss was not an Orc Lord.
It was a Taurus Demon.
A bull-class corrupted entity. Twelve feet tall. Wielding a warhammer the size of a tree. Skin like iron plate. Horns that could gut a horse. And a roar that could shatter stone.
‘No, no, no, no—’
The thought was cold, clinical, the thought of a man watching a plan disintegrate. Seraphine — the tank, the woman I was going to seduce and fuck and milk for thousands of points — had just charged into the boss room without her breastplate, without her bracelet armor, without her full kit. Because I had made her so horny and so embarrassed that she had lost her mind.
The door exploded outward.
Golden light — the boss chamber’s ambient corruption, channeled through the doorway — preceded the body. Seraphine flew backward, her armor shattering, the remaining pieces — the pauldron, the gauntlet — flying off her body in fragments. She hit the far wall of the anteroom with a sound that was not a thud but a crack, the sound of stone meeting flesh meeting bone, and she slid to the floor, a trail of blood marking her path.
She did not move.
The thing that came through the door was not an Orc Lord.
It was massive.
Twelve feet, perhaps thirteen, its body a sculpture of corrupted muscle and iron-hard skin. Its head was a bull’s — black, horned, the eyes glowing furnace-red, the snout flaring with each explosive breath.
In its hand — a warhammer, the head the size of a wagon wheel, the handle a tree trunk wrapped in chains. Each step it took shook the floor, the stone cracking beneath its hooves, the anteroom trembling as it ducked through the doorway and rose to its full height.
“RRRRGHHH!!”
The roar hit us like a physical force. The fire went out. The bedrolls scattered. Mirra screamed, falling backward, her hands over her ears. Elwen raised her wand, the tip blazing green, her face white.
“KUAARGGHHHH!!”
It raised the hammer.
I pulled out the gun. Fired.
CRACK.
The bullet struck the Taurus Demon in the chest. The impact — a lead ball traveling at four hundred meters per second — hit the iron-hard skin and deflected, leaving a silver streak on the black surface but not penetrating.
“Fuck!”
I fired again. CRACK. The second bullet hit the neck — the softer tissue between the jaw and the shoulder. The Demon flinched. Blood — dark, almost black — sprayed from the wound. But the creature did not stop. It swung the hammer.
I dove. The hammer hit the space where I had been standing, and the floor exploded — stone fragments flying, a crater three feet deep, the shockwave knocking Elwen and Mirra off their feet.
“RUN!” I screamed, rolling, firing.