100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids Chapter 484 - 483- Red Light Area

She went still.

Not the exhausted still of a woman who has run out of energy. The sharp, sudden still of a woman who has just heard a specific word that her brain is running back through its filters to confirm it arrived correctly.

"What?"

Her voice ca out raw. Scraped. The specific, wrecked register of a throat that had spent the last hour being comprehensively used and was not at full capacity.

"What did you just say."

He pulled back from her ear.

Looked at her face.

At the wet, the tears, the milk-stained dress fabric pushed aside, the complete, honest ruin of a woman who had been taken apart piece by piece in her own bedroom while her son slept in the next room.

He reached up.

Found the remaining tied wrist.

The buckle gave. The belt falling away.

Her arm ca down. The specific, aching drop of a limb that has been held above its owner’s head for a long ti and is now making its opinions known about that.

He took her hand.

Guided it.

Down.

Her fingers, still not entirely her own, found his cock — and her body, which had spent the last hour being thoroughly educated in the geography of it, responded to the contact with the specific, involuntary familiarity of sothing that now recognized a texture.

Her hand curled around it.

Without deciding to.

"I’m going to save your husband," he said.

She stared at him.

Her hand was massaging his cock.

She looked at her hand.

Back at him.

"How. What. How can you possibly—"

"I need your help," he said. "For that."

She blinked.

Her thumb moved across the head of him — again, the involuntary gesture of a hand that had learned this — and he watched her face do the specific, complicated sequence of a woman trying to have a practical conversation while her body is doing sothing entirely different.

"What kind of help."

He looked at her.

At her body. At the soft, warm, milk-wet reality of her. At the specific, ’visible’ aftermath of a night that had revised her entirely.

He chuckled.

"Go inside," he said. "Find the shortest dress you own."

She stared.

"If you don’t have one, you can just tie bandage around your nipple and pussy."

--- VELMOOR LANE — HARTFIELD COUNTY — MORNING ---

Velmoor Lane had three nas.

The official one, on the county maps, in the old Westing records — ’Lane of the Southern Market,’ from a ti when it had been a spice trading corridor and slled of cardamom.

The working na, used by the guards who patrolled its edges and took their fees at both ends — ’the Wet Quarter,’ for reasons that required no explanation to anyone who had been within two streets of it.

And the na everyone actually used.

’Velmoor Lane.’ After the original brothel at the lane’s center, which had been there before everything else and had outlasted several governnts, one fire, and two separate attempts at moral reform by consecutive county administrators.

It was the kind of street that looked like what it was from every direction.

At the lane’s north end, against the wall of a building that had given up all pretense of having another purpose, three n had a woman between them.

She was wearing what remained of a red dress — the fabric gathered at her waist, both ends of her exposure open to the morning air, her body the specific, warm, thick-figured body of a woman who had been doing this work long enough to have efficient thods and no remaining illusions.

The man behind her had both hands on her hips.

Slamming.

PAH! PAH! PAH!

"Hn~— yeah~— like that~—"

The man in front had her head in his hands, his cock in her mouth, his expression the specific, checked-out expression of a man conducting biology.

The third stood to the side, his cock in his own hand, waiting his turn with the patient resignation of soone third in a queue.

PAH! PAH!

All three ca in approximately forty seconds of each other — the rear man first, the flood of him making her gasp around the cock in her mouth; the front man second, the ropes landing on her tongue with the specific, imdiate warmth of it; the third man, reaching forward to use her hand for the last strokes, finishing with considerably less ceremony.

She swallowed.

Stood up.

Adjusted the red dress.

"Oi," she said. Her voice was the voice of a woman conducting comrce. "I said five silver. You gave three."

"It was quick—"

"Because you’re quick. That’s your problem, not my pricing. Pay."

The third man produced two more coins with the sullen expression of a man who has just been correctly invoiced.

She pocketed them.

Looked down the lane.

Four doors down, a woman with smoke between her lips had a man’s cock in her mouth, her knees on the cobblestone, the specific professional detachnt of soone doing work they’ve been doing long enough to multitask.

She exhaled smoke around his shaft.

He made a sound.

She didn’t look up.

Across the lane, two won leaned in a doorway — their dresses open to the waist, their bodies the comfortable, unhurried exposure of won who have stopped finding their own bodies remarkable — calling to the n passing with the specific, practiced assessnt of professionals evaluating foot traffic.

"Fresh this morning—"

"Haven’t had anyone in an hour, sweetheart—"

"Co inside, I’ll give you sothing to rember—"

Velmoor Lane.

Functioning. Corrupt. Warm with body heat and smoke and the specific, comprehensive sll of a district that had been running on these particular economics for longer than anyone currently alive could rember.

Then the woman appeared at the lane’s south entrance.

She ca around the corner and stopped.

Looked at the lane.

Her hands went to the hem of her skirt — the short, devastating, ’why’ hem of it, the fabric ending at a point that her natural modesty found deeply alarming and that the lane’s current occupants imdiately registered as ’high-end.’

The dress was not the dirtiest dress she’d owned.

It was the dress she’d been wearing when her husband took her to the county festival three years ago, before the leg condition, before the missing, before all of it — a sumr dress, short in the skirt because sumr dresses can be, with a bodice that tied at the front with a lace that had always been slightly looser than she ant it to be.

Viktor had looked at it.

Had said: ’perfect.’

She had said: ’this is not dirty.’

He had said: ’on you, it will be.’

He had been, she was now confirming, correct.

The bodice lacing — slightly loose at the front — had, in the morning walk here, worked itself sowhat looser, the soft upper curves of her breasts pressing against the V of the neckline in a way that the lace was managing only technically.

Her hands went to the skirt hem.

Tried to pull it lower.

It did not go lower.

She stood at the entrance to Velmoor Lane on a bright morning in Hartfield County in a dress that was doing sothing the dress’s original purpose had not anticipated.

Behind her, the sound of a man’s footstep.

She looked back.

Viktor.

White shirt. Dark trousers. The specific, composed ease of a man who has slept four hours and is operating at full capacity. His hands in his pockets.

And in his other hand — a thin leather lead.

The lead attached to a collar at her throat.

She had not noticed the collar until he’d fastened it in the doorway of her house, looking at her face when he did it with the expression of a man who finds sothing specifically and personally funny about the situation.

"Walk," he said.

"I cannot walk into—"

"Walk."