ebookslot Chapter 600 - 599- Morning Treatment
Chapter 600 - 599- Morning Treatment
The word came out naturally.’Master.’
Not ’Lord.’ Not ’Sir.’ Master.
The word of a woman who had surrendered completely.
"Just help me," she whispered.
The tears came again. Not the violent, grief-wracked sobs of before. The quiet, hot, steady tears of a woman who had nothing left but the one thing she wanted.
Viktor chuckled.
The low, warm, private sound of a man who had won everything.
"Yeah," he said.
His cock — still half-hard, sandwiched between their bodies, pressed against her soft belly — twitched. The thick length of it stirred, hardening slowly against the warm, soft skin of her stomach, the head resting in the hollow of her navel.
He laid her back.
Gently.
Her heavy body settling onto the bed, her head on the pillow, her tits falling to either side, the dark nipples still stiff.
He sucked her boob.
His mouth closing around her left nipple — the stiff, raw, aching peak — with the slow, warm, unhurried suction of a man feeding. His tongue swirled, his lips pulled, the wet, soft sound of suckling filling the quiet room.
He entered her.
Slowly.
pah...
Not the brutal, slamming, claiming thrust of before. A slow, deep, gentle push — his cock sliding into her swollen, used, cum-filled cunt with the wet, warm, body-clinging ease of a channel that had been opened and was now simply receiving.
"mmnh~...♡"
Her moan was soft.
Not a scream. Not a cry. A sound so small and so honest it barely qualified as sexual — the sound of a woman whose body was being held and filled and treated with something that felt, in her destroyed, addled, grief-stricken state, like kindness.
He fucked her softly.
pah... pah... pah...
"mmnh~...♡ master~...♡"
Slow.
Deep.
The rhythm of a man who had taken everything and was now giving back a fraction of it in the form of tenderness that was itself another form of theft.
Her arms found him.
Her thick, strong, scarred hands — the hands of a cook and a soldier — wrapped around his back. Her fingers found his shoulder blades and pulled him closer.
"Master~..." she whispered.
Her voice was broken, raw, the voice of a throat that had been used and a heart that had been cracked.
"Master... I love you."
The word hung in the dark.
’Love.’
The word of a woman who had been manipulated and fucked and claimed and destroyed, and who had nothing left to give except the one thing she had not given anyone since her husband died.
"I love you~..."
She repeated it.
Not because he asked. Because her body, her mind, her shattered soul needed to say it. Needed to attach the feeling to something real, even if the something real was a devil who had orchestrated every tear she had shed.
Viktor’s mouth found her nipple again.
He sucked gently.
His hips moved slowly.
pah... pah... pah...
"mmnh~...♡ master~...♡ I love you~...♡"
He came.
The quiet, warm, flooding release — not the violent, thick, brutal loads of before, but a slow, deep, pulsing deposit that filled her gently, the seed spreading through her womb with the warm, liquid patience of something settling into its permanent home.
He held her.
His arms around her heavy body.
Her arms around his.
Her face in his neck.
His face in her hair.
The two other women slept beside them, unconscious, leaking, trembling.
And Naro Hageh — former commander, former mother, former woman — held her devil and whispered the words that sealed her fate:
"I love you, Master."
"I love you."
pah...
Something warm and wet was happening to his cock.
Viktor’s eyes opened slowly, the pale morning light filtering through the inn’s bedroom window and landing on the ceiling in a long, gray rectangle. His body was heavy with the particular, satisfied exhaustion of a man who had spent the night destroying three women, and his mind was still swimming in the dark, pleasant haze of completed work.
But his cock was awake before him.
He looked down.
Dara was between his legs.
Her tongue was out — pink, wet, glistening with saliva — dragging along the underside of his shaft from base to head with the slow, devoted, practiced motion of a woman who had been trained overnight and was now performing her morning duties with the enthusiasm of a new convert. Her lips closed around the head, her cheeks hollowing, her eyes looking up at him through the dark curtain of her disheveled hair.
She pulled back with a wet pop.
"Master," she said, her voice husky, morning-rough, the voice of a throat that had been used thoroughly the night before. "You’re awake?"
Viktor blinked.
The ceiling came into focus. The room smelled of sex and sweat and the lingering, heavy musk of four bodies that had spent the night in a pile. To his left, the bed was empty — the impression of Naro’s heavy body still visible in the mattress, the sheets twisted, the pillow damp.
"Yeah," he said. His voice was calm, unhurried, the voice of a man who had woken up to a woman sucking his cock and had decided this was simply how mornings began now. "Where did the other one go?"
Dara licked his shaft again — a long, slow, flat-tongued drag from the base to the tip, her eyes never leaving his.
"They’re downstairs," she said.
Viktor sighed.
"Okay," he said. "I’ll come from the bathroom."
Dara’s eyes brightened.
"Let me help," she said.
Viktor narrowed his gaze.
The look he gave her was not refusal. It was the look of a man who had just been offered something and was deciding whether the convenience outweighed the complication. His eyes — violet, half-lidded, still carrying the devil’s gleam even in morning light — traced over her face, her swollen lips, the dried cum on her chin she hadn’t bothered to wipe.
"Fine," he said.
He stood.
His naked body moved through the room with the unconcerned, unselfconscious ease of a man who had long ago stopped caring about the state of his clothing. His cock — half-hard, wet from Dara’s mouth — swung between his thighs as he walked, the heavy length of it catching the morning light.
He entered the bathroom.
The small, tiled room still smelled of last night — the steam had dissipated, but the walls held the memory of sex and piss and cum and tears. The tub was empty. The floor was dry. Someone had cleaned.
Dara followed him in.
She knelt on the tile — her knees finding the same spot they had found last night, the position already familiar, already hers. She leaned forward, her tongue finding his balls, her hands massaging the heavy, seed-filled sac with the gentle, kneading pressure of a woman who had been told what to do and had decided to excel at it.
"Empty it," she said.
Her hand stroked his cock — slow, soapy from a bar she had found, her palm gliding along the shaft with the wet, practiced rhythm of a woman who had learned this particular skill overnight.
"What are you doing?" Viktor asked.
The question was not angry. It was curious — the mild, observational curiosity of a man who was watching a woman suck his balls in his bathroom at dawn and was mildly interested in her motivation.
She looked up at him, his balls in her mouth, her tongue swirling around the skin. She released him with a wet sound.
"Your balls need a rub," she said. "Come on, be master."