Chapter 75: Volume 1- [ - 76 ]
Seraphine knelt before me. Her yellow eyes — blazing, furious, competitive — found mine. Her mouth opened. Her tongue came out. And she took my cock into her mouth.
The head slid past her lips — the lips that had been kissed, that had screamed, that had been stretched around my cock an hour ago. The taste hit her — Seraphine’s own pussy, the sisters’ saliva, my cum — a cocktail of fluids that her analytical mind could not process and her body accepted without resistance.
She sucked. Hard. Her cheeks hollowed, her tongue — untrained, clumsy, but fierce — pressed against the underside of the shaft. Her head moved, the rhythm unsteady, the motion of a woman who had learned to suck cock an hour ago and was now competing for the title against two women who had been doing it for days.
“Glck — mmmh — gllck—”
The system chimed.
[ Triple oral stimulation (Noblewoman + 2 Commoners) — 150 pts ]
One hundred and fifty points. The noble-commoner combination multiplier — the system rewarding the social transgression, the mixing of ranks, the image of a blonde warrior kneeling beside two commoner women, all three of them worshipping the same cock.
‘Good,’ I thought, my hand finding Seraphine’s blonde hair, then Sera’s dark hair, then Lira’s chestnut. Three heads. Three mouths. Three women. ‘That is more like it.’
But my eyes were not on them. My eyes were on the window.
Through the glass, in the moonlight, I saw a figure. Pink hair. A cloak clutched around her shoulders. Running.
Mirra. The unlucky healer. Fleeing the inn, fleeing the room, fleeing the image of a well-fucked woman and a hard cock and a world that was too much for her.
Behind her, another voice — Elwen’s, sharp and concerned. “Where are you going?”
“No — I need to leave — I cannot—”
Mirra ran. Her footsteps faded into the night.
I looked down at the three women. Sera’s mouth on my balls. Lira’s tongue on the shaft. Seraphine’s lips wrapped around the head, her eyes closed, her competitive fury driving her to suck harder, faster, deeper than the sisters.
My hand ruffled their hair. All three. The gesture was proprietary, affectionate, the gesture of a man who owned what he was touching.
‘I should not let my women run away,’ I thought.
I stood. All three women trembled — the sudden movement, the withdrawal of my cock from their mouths, the shift in the air. They looked up at me with the wide, startled eyes of women who had been interrupted mid-worship.
“Seraphine,” I said, and my voice carried the quiet authority of a command. “When I come back, I want to see you in a tight, short skirt.”
Her face went red. Her mouth opened to protest — and closed. Her internal voice was a tangle of embarrassment and arousal and the desperate, confusing need to obey:
‘A short skirt — he wants — why would he — in what world would I — but he — after what he did to me — after what I just did — I—’
“Yes — my lord,” she whispered.
I turned toward the window. Opened it. The night air hit my face — cold, clean, carrying the smell of rain and stone and the faint, copper tang of blood that still lingered on my skin from the dungeon.
I activated the Boots of the Wind. The world blurred. I hurled myself through the window — the motion a launch, not a fall, the boots catching the air and propelling me forward. I hit the ground running, the cobblestones a smear beneath my feet, the speed building — sixty, seventy, eighty kilometers per hour.
The system chimed.
[ Shadow Step activated — 1,200 pts deducted ]
My mouth twitched. Twelve hundred points. Gone. In an instant. The teleportation skill that I had not even intended to use — the boots’ speed had been enough, but the system had interpreted the burst of movement as a Shadow Step activation and charged me for it.
I checked my balance. The number stared at me.
[ Current Point Balance: 3,755 pts ( -2500 pts for infinite torrent in stuck list~ Due to first purchase of high value item.
) ]
Three thousand seven hundred and fifty-five. Down from four thousand nine hundred and fifty-five. The Shadow Step had eaten a third of my reserves.
‘The fuck,’ I thought, looking at the dark street ahead, at the distant figure of Mirra’s pink hair disappearing around a corner. ‘What is this stuck points now?’
But before I could understand this useless system that has so many errors like how it gave me after the oil on credits, maybe something like that happened here too?
I ran. The Boots of the Wind carried me — the speed inhuman, the streets a smear of grey and dark, the wind screaming past my ears. I closed the distance in seconds, the figure ahead growing larger, the pink hair more distinct.
I slid to a stop. My boots scraped the cobblestones, the friction sending sparks into the night. My mouth twitched — not from the points, not from the speed, but from what I saw.
Mirra stood in the mouth of an alley. She was not moving. She was not running. She was frozen — her body rigid, her hands at her sides, her pink hair falling across a face that was white with terror.
In the alley, three men. Burly, rough, the kind of men who haunted the dark corners of country towns. One held a sword — a commoner’s blade, nicked and dull. The other two held something else.
A woman.
She was pressed against the wall — her back to the brick, her face turned away, her body bent forward. Her skirt was pulled up. Her panties — white cotton, practical — were around her ankles. The man behind her — the one with the sword — had his cock out. It was dirty, dark, the foreskin pulled back, the head pressed against the crack of her ass, the tip nudging her pussy.
She was crying. Her tears fell on the brick. Her breasts — visible through the torn neckline of her dress — rubbed against the wall with each shudder of her body.
“Please — save me — someone — save me—”
Her voice was thin, reedy, the voice of a woman who had been screaming for help and had stopped expecting it.
I looked at her. At the brown hair, the mole near her neck, the tattoo against her throat — a feather, small, dark, the kind of tattoo that marked a person as belonging to a trade or a guild.
And something clicked.
‘Brown hair. Mole near the neck. Tattoo of a feather. Bartender.’
The memory surfaced — not from Caelum’s mind, but from mine. From the reader’s mind. The original novel. The web fiction I had read in another life, in another world, sitting in front of a screen and turning pages with a mouse click.
The bartender. The bartender who appeared in every bar, in every town, in every volume. The same face, the same brown hair, the same mole, the same feather tattoo. Not because she was one woman who traveled — but because she was seven. Quintuplets. Seven identical sisters, spread across the kingdom, each one running a bar in a different town. A running gag in the original novel, a recurring Easter egg, a joke the author played on the readers who noticed.
And I was looking at one of them. The first one. The one in Oren’s Hollow.
‘How would it be if I were the first to involve her in my story?’ I thought, and the thought was a crooked, dark, amused thing. ‘The first reader to step through the screen and touch the Easter egg. The first Caelum to make the bartender more than a background character.’