100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids Chapter 508 - 507 - Eliantara Getting her life’s best Fuck

The mirrors were dead.

That silver surface that had held Elena’s face — her daughter’s wide, tear-streaked eyes watching her mother get pounded on the floor like a breeding animal — flickered twice and went completely dark. The mana tether snapped clean, starved out, the magic losing its grip the way a fist loses grip when it has been holding sothing too heavy for too long.

Viktor felt the disconnection like a small weight lifting from the back of his skull.

’Good.’

He had already given Elena enough to carry. Whatever she was doing right now — sitting on that cold academy floor, Sofia’s arms locked around her, the image of her mother’s face burned behind her eyelids — that was her problem to live with. He had planted the seed. He did not need to watch it grow tonight.

Now the room belonged to him alone. Fully. No performance. No audience.

Just appetite.

The mansion floor was wrecked.

Carpet soaked dark in a wide ring — Eliantra’s milk, the fountain that had co when his tail vibrated her womb apart, Senna’s drool that had dripped continuously during the throat-stuffing. The air hung thick and wet, the kind of air that coats the inside of your lungs — cum and sweat and hairy, well-used cunt and underneath all of that, sothing older and more animal that had no polite na.

Three won. One room. One hour. Comprehensive ruin.

Eliantra Westing — mother of Elena, wife of the Count, a woman who had never let anyone see her cry and who had now soaked a floor pillow through twice — remained exactly where Viktor had left her.

On her knees.

Face in the pillow.

Ass raised.

That thick, generous, forty-year-old body glead with sweat from the small of her back down to where her knees pressed the carpet. Generous hips built by motherhood. A belly with the soft, honest weight of a woman who had carried a child and had not pretended otherwise. The kind of ass that filled both palms and overflowed them — dark-haired at the cleft, flushed red across the cheeks from the last hour of impact, trembling in the fine, persistent way of muscle pushed past its limit.

Her hairy, swollen pussy lips hung slightly open.

Gaping. The ’stretched past its previous understanding of its own dinsions’ gape of a cunt that had accommodated sothing far larger than the Count had ever offered in twenty years of marriage — leaking a steady, slow stream of creamy white down the inside of her left thigh that dripped quietly to the carpet without her permission.

Her asshole winked.

Slowly. Rhythmically. The ’sothing was almost placed here and the body has rembered’ involuntary pulse of it — sucking inward on the cum that had landed across her crack, drawing it in with the dumb, patient biology of a hole preparing itself for sothing it hadn’t been told about yet.

She did not know she was doing it.

’That’ was the filthiest part.

"Mmmf... it’s still..." she mumbled into the pillow. Voice completely wrecked. Raw. "...still inside sohow."

Not a complaint. Not a request. The flat, stunned dispatch of a woman reporting from inside her own body at considerable distance.

Her cunt clenched around nothing and leaked more.

Both nipples — dark, thick, motherhood-worn, dragging against the damp carpet every ti she shifted her knees — left small wet milk-streaks on the fabric. Her body had triggered its let-down reflex sowhere in the second hour and had apparently decided it was permanent policy.

She could feel every place his cock had carved into her.

Not taphorically. The ’his exact shape is still present in my body and my walls have morized it’ physical reality of being thoroughly occupied by sothing the Count had never approached in twenty years. Her husband had never found that interior wall. Had never known it existed. Viktor had located it within twenty minutes and had used it as a dedicated target for the following forty.

’He’s going to co back,’ sothing quiet at the back of her brain observed.

Another part, the part she had been losing argunts with all night, replied: ’Good.’

She pressed her face harder into the pillow.

"Mmmf... nghhh... it hurts so much..." Eliantra whimpered brokenly, voice muffled and ragged, fresh tears soaking deeper into the fabric. "...yet it feels so— ’Viktor’—"

She caught herself on his na. The na she had been using. The correct na. The appropriate na for a man who was not her Master and whose cock was currently not inside her, which was the only reason she still had access to nas at all.

Viktor, who had been standing at the window stroking himself in the unhurried way of a man on no tiline, glanced back at her.

"Viktor," he repeated.

Not a correction. Just — the ’I heard you say it’ acknowledgnt, mildly curious.

Eliantra’s face, pressed sideways into the pillow, went a specific shade of red that had nothing to do with the physical exertion.

"The other two—" she started.

She stopped.

Started again.

"They keep saying it. ’Master.’" Her voice, muffled and humiliated, was working through sothing in real ti. "And I— it just— I heard myself say it before I—"

She bit her lip. Hard. The ’I am not finishing that sentence’ press of it.

"It just ca out," she finished. Quiet. Furious at herself.

Viktor was quiet for a mont.

Then he chuckled. Low, warm, genuinely amused — the chuckle of a man who finds the involuntary capitulation of a proud woman considerably more entertaining than any forced performance would have been.

"It just ca out," he repeated.

He crossed the room.

His shadow fell across her raised ass.

She felt it and her back arched without being asked — the animal awareness of a body that had learned in the last hour what his shadow standing over her ant, and had decided on a response.

He pressed his cock against her entrance. Not in. Just — the blunt, hot, ’I am here and I am waiting’ pressure of the head resting against her swollen, leaking lips.

Eliantra’s whole body shuddered.

"How many years has the Count been married to you?" His voice was entirely conversational.

"Tw— twenty years—" she managed.

"And in twenty years—" He pushed just the head in.

"AAANGHH~!! Vik— ’hhnngh’—"

"—did he ever make it ’just co out?’"

The pause.

The ’I know the answer and I do not want to give it’ silence of a woman with no defense left.

"...No," she whispered.

"Interesting." He pushed in three more inches.

"HIIEEK~!! Too much— you’re already— it’s too ’deep’—!!"

"Your cunt knows the difference," Viktor said. "That’s why it’s still wet."

Her cunt was obscenely, embarrassingly, ’I have no argunt for this’ wet. He slid to full depth with the wet, aty, ’walls that have been opened tonight and have not recovered any pretense of resistance’ drag of it — and the sound that ca from Eliantra was not a scream.

It was worse than a scream.

The low, helpless, continuous moan of a woman who had been moving toward a particular destination despite all her intentions and had just arrived.

"Ohhhh... oh ’Master’..." she breathed.

There it was.

Her hips pushed back.

Her body had made its decision. She had stopped filing objections.

"Let increase the pace; I want you to hear your cries."

PHAACKK!

"IAAANGH~~!!"

PAH! PAH! PAH! PAH!

"AAANGHH~!! MASTERRR~!! YOUR COCK— IT’S IN MY WOMB AGAIN~!! I CAN FEEL IT BEATING INSIDE ~!!"