Chapter 323 - Succubi Can’t Have Children
He sat.
The couch received him with the creak of old wood, and he pulled them both.
One hand finding Soha’s wrist. The other finding the succubus’s forearm. Two clean tugs — not rough, not gentle, simply directive, the pulls of a man who has decided on an arrangement and is implementing it.
They landed on his legs simultaneously.
One on each thigh.
Soha on his left — her pregnant belly pressing against his ribs from the side, the dome of it warm and taut, the swell of the pregnancy resting against his lower abs as she adjusted her position with the automatic wariness of a woman who has learned tonight that sitting on this man’s lap has consequences.
The succubus on his right — her enormous ass settling against his thigh with the full warm weight of it, her golden wings folding behind her, her tail coiling once around his calf with the absent possessive habit it had developed.
Both of their boobs were now at chest level.
His chest level.
The succubus’s enormous pale breasts pressing against the right side of his chest, the elongated nipples still raw from the floor. Soha’s dark-nippled boobs pressing against his left, the undersides still damp from the earlier milk.
Four boobs.
Against his chest simultaneously.
He looked at them.
Then his hands moved — both of them, one to each woman’s breast — and he kneaded.
"Hnn—" Soha.
"Mmh—" The succubus.
Their eyes met over his chest.
The two of them sitting on his thighs looking at each other — Soha’s dark eyes and the succubus’s golden ones, both carrying the shared expression of women who are in a situation they did not fully consent to and cannot locate the exit from.
Something passed between them.
Not words.
The specific look of two people who have both been thoroughly handled by the same set of hands and are now sitting in the aftermath of it together and don’t know quite what the etiquette for that is.
His hands worked both of them — the full kneading press of both palms against both sets of breasts, the flesh yielding under his grip and bouncing back, the nipples finding his thumbs on each squeeze.
"Come on," he said.
He looked at them both.
"I’m not going to bite."
"You literally bit me," Soha said.
"You bit me twice," the succubus said.
A beat.
"I’m not going to bite again." He pressed both nipples simultaneously. "Right now."
"Hnn—"
"Mmhnn—"
The two sounds arriving at the same moment, overlapping in the apartment air, their bodies pressing slightly toward him in the involuntary lean of a frame responding to stimulus.
Their pregnant bellies — Soha’s full, rounded, the genuine dome of the pregnancy, and the succubus’s soft belly, the slight round of her lower abdomen — pressed against each other as they leaned in, the warm contact of the two bodies from the side.
The succubus looked down at Soha’s belly.
Something moved in her face.
He saw it.
He leaned forward.
His mouth finding the top of Soha’s breast — the full, slow press of his lips against the skin there, tongue tracing the curve upward toward the nipple.
"No—" Soha’s hand moved to the back of his head. "I’m not — stop telling me those things about milk in front of—"
He pressed his lips to the nipple.
"HNNGH — I said stop—"
He moved to the succubus’s breast.
The same press of his lips against the enormous pale curve of it, his mouth working the elongated nipple with the same focused attention.
"Mmhnn — ahh—" The succubus’s wing twitched. "Don’t — that one is still—"
"Your tits are beautiful," he said.
Against her breast. The words landing directly on the skin there, vibrating against the nipple.
She made a sound.
Not a moan. Something underneath the moan — the sound a person makes when they’ve been told something they haven’t been told in a long time and their body has registered it faster than their face could organize a response.
"Don’t," she said.
Her voice came out smaller than she intended.
"I’m not going to." He kissed the top of her breast. "I’m just telling you."
"It’s manipulation," Soha said.
"It is," the succubus agreed.
They both looked at him.
He kneaded both their boobs.
"Then leave," he said.
Neither of them moved.
He chuckled.
The sound of it vibrating against the succubus’s breast where his mouth was still pressed, the warmth of it traveling through the skin.
"I won’t touch another man," the succubus said suddenly.
The words arrived without preamble — direct, stated, carrying the flatness of something decided and delivered before it could be reconsidered.
He lifted his head.
Looked at her.
"After you," she said. Her golden eyes direct. "I’m not touching another man."
"You’re a succubus," Soha said, her voice carrying the careful neutrality of a woman choosing her words. "You need—"
"I know what I need." The succubus looked at him. "He generates enough. With that healing ability running." A beat. "I could survive on him alone. Theoretically."
He looked at her.
The golden eyes. The golden horns. The enormous pale breasts in his hands. The tail wrapped around his calf.
He breathed.
"Who said," he said quietly, "you are going to touch another man after me?"
Her eyes narrowed.
"What."
"I’m saying it first." His thumb found her nipple. Pressed. "So don’t bother saying it as if you’ve decided something I haven’t already decided."
"That is not—" She stopped.
Her tail tightened around his calf.
"I am a succubus," she said slowly. "I cannot live without — without the energy. Without—"
"I know what you need."
"Then you understand that I—"
"I said I know." His eyes held hers. "And I said you’re not touching another man. Those two sentences are not contradictory."
She looked at him.
Something moved in her face — rapid, complicated, the motion of a very old being receiving something it had categorized as impossible and is now running the recategorization.
Then he pinched her nipple.
"HYAAK~!!"
"Do you really think," he said, "any man could be bored with you?"
She closed her mouth.
Her hand went to his wrist — not to remove it. Just to hold it there.
"Of course," she said. Her voice had gone quiet. "Why do you think I’m out here in the backwaters?"
A beat.
"I am a Throne Bishop," she said.
Soha looked at her.
He looked at her.
"Throne Bishop," he repeated.
"Seventh rank of the demon hierarchy." Her voice carried something under the information — not pride, the opposite of pride. The weight of something that should be impressive that has become instead an explanation for loneliness. "I was one of six in this continent. Before."
"Before."
"Before a man decided that was a problem." Her tail stopped moving. "And did something about it."
The apartment was quiet.
Soha’s hand, which had been pressed flat against his chest, moved without her appearing to notice it — pressing slightly closer, her fingers curling.
"Such a bitch like you," he said.
She blinked.
"Seventh rank. Throne Bishop." He leaned forward. His mouth found her breast again — the full press of lips against the enormous pale curve, his tongue tracing a slow circle around the nipple. "Hiding in an ice-floor apartment."
"I am not hiding—"
"Hiding," he said again, against her skin.
Her wing fluttered once.
"Do you think you’re useless," he said.
The question landed quietly.
Her body answered before she did — the specific full-body tension of something that has been hit in an unguarded place, her back straightening, her wings tightening against her body.
"I’m just old," she said.
"Old."
"I’ve been here — I don’t count years anymore. Time is different here." She looked at the frosted window. "Outside it has been — I don’t know. Decades, maybe. Everyone I knew is—"
"Mature."
She looked at him.
"Thick." He pressed her breast in both hands, the full generous weight of it. "Perfect."
Her face went crimson.
From the horns down — the full blush of a very old demon being called ’mature’ and ’perfect’ by a man with his hands full of her breast, the specific blush of something that has not been told that in a very long time.
"Don’t—"
"Don’t you want children?"
The apartment went completely silent.
Her tail stopped.
Her wings stopped.
Her hands, which had been pressed against his chest, went still.
"Succubi can’t have children," she said.
Her voice was very flat. The flatness of a sentence that has been said many times to many people and has become a wall rather than a statement.
"That’s not—"