Chapter 777 - 776- Saintess of Perverted Lord

Chapter 777: Chapter 776- Saintess of Perverted Lord

"I felt it." Mirin’s eyes met mine. "When she touched me, I felt you. Through her. Like a warmth. Like a pulse. Like something calling to me from far away." Her hand squeezed my cock. "And then you arrived. And the pulse became a thunder."

I looked at her. Average face. Average body. Glasses. Ponytail. The kind of woman who would disappear in a crowd. But her eyes — those sharp, intelligent, fever-bright eyes — were anything but average. They were the eyes of a zealot. A true believer.

"Go on the bed," I said.

She stood. "As you say, my Lord."

"Remove."

Her hands went to her tunic. She pulled it over her head — no hesitation, no shame. The fabric dropped to the floor. Her body was petite. Small frame, narrow shoulders, the kind of build that would always look younger than it was. Her breasts were small — barely handfuls — soft, with pinkish nipples that were already stiff from the air. Her stomach was flat, her hips narrow, her legs slim. She unbuttoned her pants, pushed them down, stepped out of them. No underwear. She’d been prepared.

Her pussy. Hairy. Dark hair, thick, untrimmed — covering her mound completely, extending down her inner thighs. Natural. The hair of a woman who had never considered that someone might look.

"Shave it," I said.

She didn’t blink. "Yes, my Lord."

She turned to the shelf. Found a small razor — the kind used for splitting herbs, thin-bladed, precise. She found a basin of water. She sat on the edge of the cot — beside Rosalind’s unconscious body — and spread her legs. I watched her lather the hair with soap. Watched the razor drag across her skin, taking the hair in strips. She worked methodically — pulling the skin taut, angling the blade, rinsing between strokes. Her face was focused. Concentrated. The expression of a woman performing a task she’d been trained to do well.

When she finished, her pussy was bare. The hair gone, the skin smooth and pink. Her lips were visible now — thin, closed, the inner flesh just barely peeking through. She spread her legs wider. Used her fingers to part the outer lips. The interior was pink, glistening, the entrance small and tight. And there — deep inside, visible through the narrow opening — her hymen. Thin, intact, a barrier of pale flesh.

"Spread it," I said.

She spread wider. Her fingers pulled the lips apart, the pink interior opening like a flower. The hymen was more visible now — a crescent of tissue, thin and delicate, blocking the entrance. I reached out. Pushed my finger inside. Just the tip. The resistance was immediate — her walls clenching around my finger, the hymen stretching but not breaking.

"Aren’t you tight?"

"Yes, my Lord." Her voice was breathless. Her body trembled under my touch. "I do work out. To make Lord enjoy me."

She was looking at me. Obsessively. The way a follower looks at a deity made flesh. Her pupils were blown, her lips parted, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Every time my finger moved, her body reacted — a flinch, a clench, a soft whimper.

I looked at her breasts. Small. Soft. The pinkish nipples stiff, pointing upward. I reached up with my free hand and cupped one. It fit in my palm — barely. The softness was nice. Different from the heavy, full tits of my other wives. These were modest. Gentle. The kind you could cup in one hand and feel the heartbeat through.

"Your tits are small," I said.

She flushed. "I hate them. Too small."

"No." I squeezed. Her nipple hardened against my palm. "I like them small."

Her eyes went wide. "Really, Lord? You — you like them?"

"I do." I rolled the nipple between my thumb and forefinger. She gasped. Her pussy clenched around my finger. "They fit in my hand. They’re honest. No pretense." I leaned down. Took the other nipple in my mouth. Sucked. She moaned — a high, thin sound, her back arching, her small chest pressing upward.

"Lord — that’s — ah~!!"

My finger pushed deeper. Her hymen stretched. I could feel it — the thin membrane, on the verge of tearing. Her pussy was drenched now — the wetness running down my hand, pooling on the cot. Her body was responding with the desperate, overwhelming enthusiasm of a woman who had been waiting for this moment for four days. Who had prayed for it. Who had trained for it.

"You’re wet," I murmured against her nipple.

"Your Lord’s finger — it’s inside me — I can’t —" Her voice broke. Her pussy fluttered. The walls rippled around my finger, the muscles contracting involuntarily. "Saintess Olivia said — she said when the Lord touches you, your body will prepare itself. She said it’s a blessing. A sign that you’ve been chosen."

"Olivia taught you that?"

"She taught us everything, my Lord." Mirin’s hand found my cock. Her fingers — small, delicate — wrapped around the shaft. She stroked. Slowly. Reverently. "She said your cock is a divine instrument. That taking it inside you is the highest form of worship. That your seed is a sacrament."

I looked at Mira. Mira was smirking. Helena was pursing her lips — the expression of a woman who wanted to disapprove but couldn’t find the moral ground to stand on.

"Olivia is thorough," Mira said.

I looked down at Mirin. Her hand on my cock. Her pussy dripping around my finger. Her small tits heaving with each breath. Her eyes — those devoted, fevered eyes — looking at me like I was the sun and she was the flower turning toward me.

"Lie down," I said.

She lay on the cot. Beside Rosalind’s unconscious body. Her legs spread — wide, eager, the soles of her feet pressed together in a frog position. Her pussy opened, the pink interior glistening, the hymen visible. Her small tits rose and fell with each rapid breath.

"Please, Master," she whispered.

I chuckled. Positioned myself between her legs. My cock — ten inches, thick, the head dark and swollen — pressed against her entrance. The size difference was absurd. My cock laid against her stomach, the head reaching past her belly button. The visual alone made her pussy flutter — I could see the lips contracting, the wetness increasing.

"This is going to hurt," I said.

"I know, my Lord." Her eyes were wet. Happy. "Saintess Olivia said the pain is a gift. That it means the Lord is reshaping you. Making you his."

I pushed. The head pressed against her entrance — small, tight, barely big enough to accommodate me. Her lips spread — slowly, painfully — the flesh stretching around the girth of my cock. Her body trembled. Her hands gripped the sheets.

"AH —" Her voice was thin. High. "It’s — my Lord — it’s too big —"

I pushed harder. The head squeezed in. The entrance gripped me like a fist — impossibly tight, the walls pressing against me from every side. I could feel her hymen — stretched taut, about to break. I looked down. Her pussy was spread around the head of my cock, the lips pulled thin and white from the stretching. Her clit — small, pink, swollen — was pressed against the top of my shaft.

Her hands went to her breasts. She grabbed them — both of them, her fingers sinking into the soft flesh — and kneaded. Pinched her nipples. Pulled.

"So you know how to make yourself feel good when it hurts," I said.