Chapter 774 - 773- Her First Time

Chapter 774: Chapter 773- Her First Time

Her face was peaceful in unconsciousness. The round cheeks, the full lips, the dark eyelashes resting on her skin. Her body was a study in abundance — wide hips, thick thighs, a soft belly visible where the dress had ridden up. Her breasts were the kind that would spill over both hands. The kind that fed children. The kind that a man could suffocate in.

I felt my cock twitch.

Helena appeared beside me. "Her name is Rosalind. She handles the herb supply chain for the Pill Tower. Accountancy, inventory management, supplier negotiations."

"She’s literate," I said. Not a question.

"Fluent in three languages. Self-taught in alchemical notation." Helena’s voice carried respect. "She’s one of the most educated commoners in Millbrook. Focused entirely on her career. Refused every courtship offer. She’s been climbing the administrative ranks through sheer competence."

I looked at Rosalind again. A woman who had chosen books over men. Ambition over romance. Education over everything. And here she was — unconscious on a cot, her thick body splayed, my cock hardening as I looked at her.

"She’ll rise," I said. I reached for her blouse. My fingers found the neckline. Pulled. The fabric tore — buttons popping, the sound tiny and sharp in the quiet room. Her breasts spilled free.

They were magnificent. Heavy, round, the color of warm cream. Her areolas were large — dark, the nipples soft but prominent. Her tits settled on her chest, spreading slightly under their own weight, the soft flesh pressing against her ribs. I could see the faint blue veins beneath the skin — the network of life, of milk, of potential.

I climbed over her. Straddled her chest. My cock — hard, ten inches, the head leaking pre-cum — lay across her sternum, resting between her breasts. I grabbed them. Both hands, both tits, pressing them together around my shaft. The softness was incredible — warm, yielding, enveloping. I started to move.

"Viktor."

Mira’s voice. Sharp. Amused. "You can’t just fuck an unconscious woman."

"Technically, I’m not fucking her. This is a titfuck."

"That’s still — yes, it is wrong."

I looked at her. My hips moved — slow, deliberate, my cock sliding between Rosalind’s pressed-together breasts. The head emerged from her cleavage with each thrust, pre-cum smearing across her skin. Her tits were so soft, so heavy, that the friction was minimal — just warmth and pressure and the obscene visual of my dark cock against her pale chest.

Helena watched. Her lips were pursed. Her amber eyes tracked the movement with the analytical attention of a woman cataloguing data.

Mira sighed. Walked over. Grabbed my tail.

The sensation hit me like a lightning bolt. My tail — sensitive, an extension of my nervous system, essentially a second cock in terms of erogenous response — was pulled. Not hard. Not painfully. But firmly enough that my entire spine lit up. I groaned. My hips stuttered.

"You cannot just make every woman you meet your woman," Mira said. Her voice was calm. Reasonable. The voice of a wife managing an unreasonable husband. She lifted my tail to her mouth. Her tongue — long, skilled, the tongue of a demoness — dragged along the length of it. From base to tip. Slowly.

I groaned again. Deeper. My cock throbbed between Rosalind’s tits.

"Just titfuck her and leave," Mira said. Her breath was hot against my tail.

"Can I not — please?"

Mira looked at me. My face — flushed, desperate, the face of an incubus who wanted everything and everyone. She held my gaze for a long moment. Then she sighed. A deep, resigned, utterly defeated sigh.

She looked at Elara, who had followed them inside, and at Helena. "Do whatever you want," she said. The words were directed at me, but the tone was the tone of a woman who had given up. "It’s not like I can stop you. Spoiled husband."

I grinned.

I moved down. Pulled my cock from Rosalind’s cleavage — the shaft slick with pre-cum, the head swollen. I slid lower. My hands found her dress — pulling it up, past her knees, past her thick thighs. The fabric bunched at her hips.

Her thighs were incredible. Thick — genuinely thick, the kind that would squeeze a man’s hips and hold him in place. Almond skin, smooth, with a softness that spoke of a life spent at a desk rather than in training. Her hips were wide — birthing hips, the kind that made dresses difficult and men stupid.

Her panties. White cotton. Practical. Stretched tight over her wide hips, the fabric slightly yellowed at the edges from washing. A small brown stain — old, faded — on the back panel. I pulled them down. Over her thighs, past her knees, catching at her ankles. The fabric stretched between her legs.

Her pussy. Brown hair — thick, natural, untrimmed. The curls were dark, soft, covering her mound completely. Below the hair, her lips — closed, tight, the darker brown of her inner skin barely visible. No arousal. No wetness. She was unconscious, untouched, completely natural.

My incubus pheromones had been leaking. Subtle. Ambient. Not directed, but present. As I looked at her, I felt the shift — the faintest glisten appearing on her closed lips. Her body responding to my presence even in sleep. Her nipples — already exposed — stiffened slightly. Her breathing changed — just a fraction, just enough.

I spread her thighs. My hands on her knees, pushing them apart. The visual hit me — her thick legs open, her pussy exposed, the brown hair dampening at the edges. I grabbed my cock. Positioned the head against her entrance. Felt the resistance — the tight, closed opening, the lips barely parting.

I pushed. Just the head. The pressure was immediate. Her entrance — tight, clenched, resisting even in unconsciousness. I pushed harder. The head squeezed in — barely — and the tightness made me gasp.

"Damn." I exhaled. "This is a virgin."

"Indeed," Helena said. From behind me. Her voice was calm. Observational. "She focused on education to rise in the rankings. Had no interest in men. Or women. Purely academic."

I looked at Rosalind’s face — peaceful, unconscious, the face of a woman who had chosen knowledge over everything. My cock was barely inside her — just the head, the entrance gripping me like a fist. Her body was tight. Virgin tight. The kind of resistance that made every nerve in my cock fire at once.

"She’ll become a noble’s wife," I murmured. I spread her with my fingers — pulling her delicate inner lips apart, opening her entrance. I pulled her hands — her limp, unconscious hands — and placed them on her pelvis, framing her pussy. Her arms sandwiched her breasts between them, pushing them together, the visual obscene and beautiful.

I spread her legs wider. Leaned down. Kissed her.

My lips met hers — soft, full, warm. She tasted like tea. I kissed her gently. Then harder. My tongue pushed past her lips. She didn’t respond — unconscious, still. But her body did. The pheromones were working. Her pussy — clamped around the head of my cock — loosened. Just slightly. A thin thread of wetness appeared.

I pulled back from the kiss. Looked at her peaceful face.

And slammed.

"AAANGH — !!"

The scream was immediate. Rosalind’s eyes flew open — wide, shocked, the pupils blown. Her body jerked. Her head threw back against the pillow. Her hands — still on her pelvis — clawed at the sheets. Her thighs clamped around my hips.

"IT HURTS!" she screamed. Her voice was raw. High. Terrified. "IT HURTS — OH GODS — WHAT —"

I pulled back. Her virgin blood — thin, red, fresh — coated the head of my cock. I could see it on my shaft. On her thighs. On the white cotton panties stretched between her ankles. I pushed in again. Deeper this time — the resistance giving way, her walls parting around me, the heat and tightness beyond anything I’d felt.

"NO — HAAANGH~!! — please — it hurts — OUNGH~!! — someone — HELP — AAANGH~!!"