8mi Chapter 565 - 564- Treatment of Sleeping Booty
Chapter 565 - 564- Treatment of Sleeping Booty
Dara’s eyes found the length of it.The full, vein-mapped, thick-headed, honestly-proportioned reality of a cock lying against the ass crack of a woman who was unconscious and blue-shouldered and breathing shallowly.
Her panty had been pulled slightly to the side, the white fabric folded at the hip, exposing the darker, warmer, soft-creased territory of her anal.
Higher up, her thin linen blouse strained against her chest with every shallow rise of her breath, the fabric damp with sweat, outlining the stark, dark circles of her rigid nipples against the pale cloth.
The cockhead — already pressing.
One inch.
The very tip of it engaged with the muscle.
Inside the dark, locked cage of her mind, a sudden, blinding spark of agony flared. ’It bit.’ A sharp, tearing heat where nothing should be. Her consciousness thrashed against the dead weight of the paralysis. ’Husband... Where is husband?’
The unconscious woman’s body responded despite everything — the small, involuntary tremble of her hips, the slight, helpless shift of a woman who was not fully unconscious but was paralyzed.
The distinction between those two things was visible in the micro-motion of her body registering input it could not consciously process.
A single, hot tear leaked from the corner of her closed eye, soaking into the pillow as her lips parted, her mouth opening in a silent, straining gasp for air.
Her fingers curled.
Slightly.
In the blanket beneath them.
Viktor looked over his shoulder.
At both women.
At Dara’s face — the expression on it carrying the full, simultaneous, compressed experience of a woman who had agreed to ’meet the master’ and was now meeting the master in a configuration she had not prepared vocabulary for.
Viktor’s expression: the expression of a man who had been interrupted mid-sentence and was mildly surprised by the interruption.
"I’m healing her," he said.
The flat, informational delivery of a man stating an obvious thing.
He looked at Dara.
"Can’t you see."
Not a question.
"Hold her."
Dara opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"Hold—"
"Her hips," Viktor said. The patient, clarifying tone of a man who had given an instruction and was providing the minimum additional detail required for it to be followed.
"She’ll move. The mana dispersal creates involuntary muscle response. Someone needs to keep her still during the initial phase."
He looked at Dara.
"You."
Dara looked at the woman on the bed.
At the blue shoulders. At the dark circles visible even from the side. At the barely-audible breathing. At the way her damp blouse clung to her breasts, emphasizing her vulnerability.
At the pillow under her hips.
At the cock currently in contact with her anal.
At Viktor, who was looking at her with the violet eyes and the patient, settled expression of a man who was waiting for someone to stop processing and start doing.
"This is healing," Dara said. Her voice carrying the very specific tone of a woman making a statement that was also a question that was also an attempt to locate herself in a situation whose coordinates she had not fully established.
"Mana reversal," Viktor said. "The mana has turned inward. It needs an external channel to draw it back out. The most efficient external channel in a woman’s body—"
He looked at Dara.
"—is this one."
The candlelight.
The breathing woman on the bed.
The blue skin retreating very slightly from the point of contact — already, in the one inch of engagement, the color at the base of her spine beginning to warm, the faintest edge of natural skin tone returning at the precise point where his cock was pressing.
Dara saw this.
Her eyes fixed on the color change at the woman’s skin.
The blue, unmistakably, retreating.
She looked at Viktor.
He looked back.
"Hold her," he said again.
Beside Dara, Helviana moved.
The practiced, calm, forward movement of a woman who had been through more than one variant of this situation and had arrived at the place where ’hold her’ was simply an instruction she was going to follow.
She moved to the bedside.
Her hands found the guild mistress’s shoulders — the careful, firm grip of a woman providing the specific, practical stability that had been requested.
She looked at Dara.
The look of a woman who had already accepted something and was waiting for another woman to accept it.
"Come," she said. Her voice quiet. Warm. The voice of a woman who understood what it felt like to be standing in the position Dara was standing in and was not going to make it worse by making it large.
Dara looked at the bed.
At the woman on it.
At the color changing at her spine.
At the hands Helviana had placed.
At Viktor, who had already turned back to his work, his attention returning to the woman beneath him with the focused, patient quality of a man who had a task and was doing it.
She moved to the bedside.
Her hands found the guild mistress’s hips.
The full, dense, warm weight of them under her palms — the alive warmth of a body that was still fighting, still present, still using what it had.
Viktor felt the stability.
He pressed.
"Mnh~—"
The guild mistress.
The sound coming from her without her permission — the small, broken, paralyzed-body sound of a woman who could not speak and could not move and was producing this noise from somewhere below the level of consciousness where speech and movement were organized.
Deep in her trapped mind, the confusion turned to sudden terror. ’Who are you? What clearly? No, no, no. Don’t defile me.’ She wanted to turn, wanted to fight, but her limbs remained frozen like ice.
Her fingers curled deeper into the blanket.
Viktor pushed deeper.
Three inches.
The tight, unyielding heat of her first time giving way to the blunt force of his intrusion, a thick stretch that sent a fresh wave of silent weeping through her soul. ’No, it hurts. It hurts. It hurts.’ She was crying inside, her mind screaming against the pressure, yet her physical lips could only manage a choked gasp.
The candlelight caught the sweat on the guild mistress’s lower back. The full, dense, slow jiggle of her thick ass as Viktor’s hips settled forward — the generous, thoroughly alive motion of flesh that was warm and present and occupied.
The blue at her shoulders retreated another half-inch.
Dara watched it happen.
Her hands on the woman’s hips.
Feeling the warmth under them.
Feeling, distantly and immediately, the motion transmitting through the hips she was holding — the small, helpless, involuntary rock of a woman being entered who could not do anything about being entered.
"Mnh~— nnh~—"
Viktor looked over his shoulder again.
At Dara.
At her face — the expression on it was not the expression it had been thirty seconds ago. Still complicated. Still carrying things she had not resolved. But the upper layer of it — the layer that had been pure disorientation — was thinning.
She was watching the blue retreat from the woman’s skin.
She was watching it work.
"Tighter," Viktor said.
Dara looked at her hands.
Gripped the hips tighter.
Viktor felt the stability increase.
He pushed the remaining distance.
"Mmnh~— nnh~— NNGH~—"