Chapter 776 - 775 - Another Brainwashed Devotee

Chapter 776: Chapter 775 - Another Brainwashed Devotee

The young woman’s eyes went wide. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. The herbs scattered across the floor lay forgotten between her feet. Her glasses — round, wire-framed, slightly askew from the shock — sat on her nose like two tiny windows into a mind that was currently blue-screening.

Then she closed the door.

Swiftly. Firmly. The click of the latch was definitive. The sound of someone making a decision.

I raised an eyebrow. Looked at Mira. Mira shrugged. Helena tilted her head. Rosalind, still impaled on my cock, murmured something about blessings and passed out.

The door reopened. Just a crack. Two eyes behind two glasses peered through the gap. Scanned the room. Found me. Found my cock. Found Rosalind’s leaking pussy. Found the three other women.

The door opened fully.

The young woman dropped to her knees.

Not collapsed. Not fell. Dropped — voluntarily, deliberately, with the practiced grace of someone who had done this before. Her knees hit the wooden floor with a soft thud. Her hands went forward — palms flat, fingers spread, the posture of a supplicant approaching an altar. She crawled.

Toward me.

I watched her. My cock twitched inside Rosalind’s unconscious pussy, still buried to the hilt, still dripping. The young woman crawled across the floor, her ponytail swaying behind her, her glasses catching the dim light. Her eyes never left me. Those sharp, intelligent eyes — now glassy, now fevered, now filled with something that looked nothing like fear and everything like devotion.

"My Lord," she whispered. Her voice was breathy. Reverent. The voice of a woman reciting a prayer she’d memorized long before she’d ever expected to use it. "You have come. You have truly come."

She reached my feet. Her hands found my ankle — the left one — and she lowered her head. Her lips pressed against my foot. The kiss was gentle. Warm. Her tongue darted out — a small, quick flick across my instep. I felt the wetness. The heat. The trembling of her hands as they traveled upward.

"My Lord," she breathed against my calf. Her lips kissed the muscle there. Then my knee. Then the inside of my thigh. Her tongue traced the tendon, and I felt her breath — hot, rapid, desperate — against my skin. She kissed higher. Her fingers found the junction of my thigh, the crease where leg met hip, and her mouth hovered there. So close to my balls that I could feel the warmth of her exhale.

Then she kissed them.

Her lips found my sac — the heavy, cum-filled flesh that hung below my cock, still pressed against Rosalind’s pussy. She kissed the left testicle. Then the right. Her tongue — small, wet, precise — traced the seam between them. I groaned. The sound came from low in my chest, rumbling through my body, and the young woman heard it. Her eyes flicked up. Found mine. And the look in them — the absolute, burning, unshakeable worship — made my cock pulse inside Rosalind.

"She’s a believer," Mira said. Her voice was casual. Amused. The voice of a woman cataloguing inventory. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her crimson eyes tracking the young woman’s progress with the analytical detachment of a scientist observing a specimen. Her lips curled — slowly, sharply, revealing one fang. "Olivia’s doing."

I looked at her. "Now that you mention it." I paused. The young woman’s tongue was on my perineum now, licking the sensitive skin between my balls and the base of my cock. Her hands gripped my thighs, steadying herself, her mouth working with the enthusiastic desperation of someone who had been trained. "Tell me. What exactly is it?"

Mira’s smirk widened. "Olivia. She’s been busy."

Helena stepped forward. Her amber eyes were softer — not amused, not judgmental, just observational. "After you left, Olivia took it upon herself to... spread your word. She’s been teaching the women of Milkwood that you’re a god. A literal deity. She’s established a church. Written scriptures. Created rituals."

"She’s been manipulating them," Mira added. Bluntly. "The ones she converts. She uses your residual energy — the incubus pheromones you left in her body — to induce arousal during the ’blessing ceremonies.’ They come to her for healing, for guidance, for counsel. She gives them a sermon.. By the time she’s done, they’re devoted. Completely, utterly, irreversibly devoted to you."

I stared at her. My cock throbbed. The young woman below me had moved to my shaft now — her tongue dragging along the visible portion that wasn’t buried in Rosalind, licking the mixture of cum and blood and pussy juice with the reverence of a woman taking communion.

"Olivia," I said. The name came out flat.

"The Saintess," Helena confirmed. "That’s what they call her. Saintess Olivia, the Voice of the Lord. She’s converted over three hundred women in the seven days you’ve been gone."

"Three hundred."

"Give or take." Mira examined her nails. "I didn’t stop her because, frankly, it’s been useful. The devotees work harder. They don’t complain. They volunteer for everything. Construction output has tripled. The garrison has more volunteers than it can train. The apothecary district is running at capacity because the workers consider it a sacred duty." She paused. Looked at me. "And her healing has increased. Dramatically. The devotion — the actual faith, the genuine belief of hundreds of women — is feeding your power through the bond. You’re stronger now than when you left."

I felt it. That warm, ambient energy — the background hum that had been with me since I’d arrived, the steady increase in my incubus aura — now made sense. It wasn’t just the tower. It wasn’t just the territory. It was faith. Three hundred women, believing in me, praying to me, channeling their devotion through Olivia’s teachings. The energy was flowing back to me through the bond I’d left in Olivia when I’d fucked her, when I’d impregnated her, when I’d made her the first convert.

I looked down at the young woman. She’d finished cleaning my shaft and was now sucking my balls — one in her mouth, her tongue swirling, her hand stroking the base of my cock. Her eyes were closed. Her expression was bliss.

"Good girl," I murmured.

She moaned around my testicle. The vibration traveled through my sac, up my shaft, into my spine. I pulled out of Rosalind — the thick woman slumped onto the cot, her pussy gaping, leaking cum in a slow trickle. My cock emerged wet, slick, still hard. The young woman immediately took the head in her mouth, tasting the mixture, her tongue probing the slit for more.

"What’s her name?" I asked. My hand found her hair — soft, dark, the ponytail half-undone. I ruffled it. She looked up at me, my cock in her mouth, her eyes shining.

"Mmmph—" She pulled off. A string of saliva connected her lips to the head. "Mira, my Lord. My name is Mira."

"We already have a Mira," Mira said. Flatly.

"I — I’m sorry, Lady Mira, I —"

"Her name is Mirin," Helena corrected, glancing at a small ledger she’d produced from somewhere. "Mirin Thorne. Apothecary apprentice. Age nineteen. Literate. Trained in herbal identification and basic alchemy. No prior romantic or sexual history." She paused. Looked at me. "She’s been a devotee for four days."

"Four days," I repeated.

Mirin nodded. Her hand was still on my cock, stroking slowly, her thumb running along the underside. "Saintess Olivia came to the apothecary four days ago. She told us about you. About your power. About your generosity." Her voice was soft. Devoted. "She healed Mrs. Cormack’s arthritis. She cured the baker’s daughter of the wasting sickness. She said it was all your power, flowing through her."

"And you believed her?"