Chapter 443 - 442- Taking Pleasure of Hands
Rihana blinked slowly. Turned her head toward Lira.
Her expression was the face of a woman who has been somewhere the language doesn’t reach and has returned changed, and doesn’t particularly see the problem.
"...I liked it." Her voice was hoarse. Wrecked. Completely, unmistakably ’honest.’ "I was the one — I was the slut." A pause. Her thick hand came up and rested, gently, against Viktor’s knee. "Don’t say anything to him, leader."
Then she pressed her face against his thigh and closed her eyes.
The ground under Lira’s argument simply ceased to exist.
She stood there for a full three seconds with her mouth open and no functioning counterpoint.
Rihana — ’Rihana’, quiet, covered, modest Rihana — was naked and seed-full and leaning against this man’s leg like a satisfied cat and ’defending him.’
Lira looked at Gwen.
Gwen looked at Lira.
Neither of them had anything.
Viktor turned to face them fully.
The moonlight did him no favors in terms of their composure. He was built like something assembled specifically to make women’s bodies override their brains — the line of his shoulders, the cut of his stomach, the casual, utterly unashamed way he stood with his cock still heavy and half-hard between his thighs, purple aura moving slow and warm in the air around him.
"Come here." He said it simply, like direction, not command. "Now. Sit on my lap."
"How ’dare’ you—" Gwen started.
"Both of you," he said, "willingly. Or I tear the clothes off and we skip this part entirely."
’How dare you’, Gwen thought.
’Who do you think you are’, Lira thought.
’We are absolutely not—’, they both thought.
They walked to the pond.
Neither of them could fully explain it afterward — neither to themselves nor to each other, which they would also never discuss. It was the air. It was the purple. It was twenty minutes of watching a woman get bred into incoherence while the aphrodisiac density around them climbed and their bodies passed thresholds they didn’t have names for.
It was the way he looked at them.
It was the way his voice sat in their chests like it had always had a room there and was simply reminding them.
They waded in.
The pond water hit their thighs — cold against the inside of Lira’s soaked trousers, cool against the warm, flushed skin above Gwen’s knees — and both women inhaled sharply at the contrast. They looked at each other sideways. Lira’s expression was: ’we are both doing this and I outrank you and I am choosing not to process it.’ Gwen’s was: ’I have never done anything and somehow I am doing this.’
Viktor sat at the edge of the bank, thighs wide, water at his waist, the purple aura breathing softly around him.
They sat.
One on each thigh.
The moment they settled, his arms came around both of them — not grabbing, not slamming, just ’enclosing’ — one hand sliding under the hem of Gwen’s dress, one working through the lacing of Lira’s vest, moving with the unhurried certainty of someone who has already decided what they’re doing and is simply executing.
"Don’t—" Gwen started.
His hand closed around her breast.
The word evaporated.
He groped them.
Not roughly — not yet. ’Thoroughly.’ Learning the shape of them with his palm and fingers, the way a man handles something he intends to know completely. Gwen’s — small, high, firm, the nipple a tight, desperate little peak that had been aching for contact since the purple first hit her bloodstream — fit his hand differently than Lira’s, which was fuller, heavier, the nipple broader under her vest lining, pressing against his thumb with a warmth that betrayed exactly how long it had been straining against the fabric.
Both women exhaled in the same instant.
The sound fell between complaint and ruin.
He pinched.
Two fingers. Both nipples simultaneously. A slow, precise roll — thumb and forefinger catching each stiff peak, pressing, ’pulling’ outward until the stretch drew a gasp from Gwen that she absolutely did not intend to be audible.
Lira’s head dropped forward. Her hair fell across her face.
"What are you—" Her voice had lost its edge. She reached up to grab his wrist and her fingers landed on his forearm and just... rested there. Gripping but not stopping. "—doing to—"
He twisted slightly.
"Nghh—!"
That was Lira’s noise.
It was not a protest-adjacent noise.
’What is happening to me’, Gwen thought, with the increasingly distant clarity of someone watching themselves from the ceiling. ’I am sitting on a man’s lap in a pond. A demon’s lap. A demon who just bred another woman. My nipple is in his fingers. I am not leaving.’
Her saliva had thickened. She realized she’d been swallowing more frequently than usual, her mouth generating heat she couldn’t account for.
His thumb rubbed slow circles against her nipple through the fabric.
’Oh,’ thought the part of Gwen that had been inexperienced thirty minutes ago and was considerably less so now.
"Stroke it."
He said it quietly. Against Gwen’s ear, warm and direct.
The two words hit her nervous system like a command code her body had apparently been pre-installed with and never informed her about.
Her hand moved.
She didn’t decide to move it. It moved. Down his stomach — the abdominal muscles clenching slightly under her palm, hot and firm — past his navel, into the water, until her fingers found his cock.
The first contact stopped her breathing.
The ’girth’ of it. Even under the water, even just her fingertips grazing the shaft, the size registered as something her hand had no framework for — not fully wrappable, the skin warm and smooth over something that felt carved from compressed heat. The cockhead was a rounded, heavy thing that her thumb found and then stayed on, pressing softly, as if verifying it was real.
Lira’s hand arrived a second later from the other side.
No announcement. No preamble. The bandit captain simply reached down with the directness of a woman who has decided that if she is doing this she is doing it — her longer fingers wrapping further around the shaft than Gwen’s could manage, squeezing once, testing the weight and density with a small intake of breath that she produced and immediately tried to rescind.
Both their hands. On the same cock. Fingers overlapping slightly at the base without either of them having coordinated it.
Viktor breathed out slowly through his nose.
His grip on both their nipples didn’t loosen.
He pinched again — both, synchronized — and the resulting twin sounds from either side of his chest were deeply, helplessly pornographic.
"Nhgh—!" — Gwen.
"’Hnn—!’" — Lira.
Their hands began to move.
Gwen stroked the upper half — slow, tentative, learning. Lira worked the lower, her thumb tracing the thick ridge of a vein along the underside with a grip that got progressively less tentative as his cock hardened further in their combined hold.
It was warming against their palms. Growing denser. The ridges along the shaft — evolution’s additions — pressed into their fingers as the girth swelled back toward its full, obscene potential.
Lira felt it thickening and the muscle of her throat worked once.
’That went inside of Rihana’, she thought, with complete, clinical clarity. ’All of it. Every inch of this went inside Rihana and she is lying over there looking like she has achieved religious experience.’
Her hand squeezed involuntarily.
Viktor made a low sound. Not a word. Just ’sound’ — the sound of a man receiving something exactly the way he wants it.