Chapter 779 - 778 - Saintess Meets Her Lord Finally

Chapter 779: Chapter 778 - Saintess Meets Her Lord Finally

Two women were on the railing.

Literally on the railing — straddling it, their legs hooked over the wooden beam, their skirts hiked up to their waists. They were rubbing. Their pussies — covered by thin panties — grinding against the polished wood, the friction leaving wet streaks. Their faces were flushed, their mouths open, their eyes half-closed.

"Lord Viktor," one moaned. "Please forgive me."

"Forgive me," the other echoed. "I shouldn’t have — it’s wrong — my husband —"

She was using a whip. A small leather riding crop, the kind used for horses. She slapped it against the other woman’s thigh — the sound sharp, the flesh reddening. The other woman cried out. Not in pain. In pleasure.

"Lord Viktor, forgive me — I cheated — it is wrong — my husband was angry — Lord Viktor, please —"

Further along the railing, another woman. Older. Thick-bodied. She was pressed against a pole — one of the support beams of the church’s awning — her body wrapped around it, her legs clamped tight, her hips grinding against the wood. Her dress was bunched at her waist. Her head was thrown back.

"Yes — yes — my Lord — yes —"

I stared. My mouth twitched.

"What," I said. "Is happening here."

The women on the railing noticed me. Their eyes — glassy, fevered — went wide. Then brighter.

"Lord Viktor! The Lord has arrived!"

"Lord! Please — come inside us — please —"

They reached for me. Both of them. Their hands grasping at my arms, my chest, my cock. I stepped back. Not in retreat — in assessment. These women were gone. Completely, utterly brainwashed. Their pupils were blown, their movements jerky, their speech patterned and repetitive. The devotion had consumed them.

I pushed through them. Through the doors. Into the church.

The hall was modest. Pews lined both sides. Candles burned along the walls. The scent of incense — heavy, sweet, intoxicating — filled the air. And at the far end, where an altar should have been, there was—

A idol.

A cock.

A massive, carved, golden cock. Six feet tall, mounted on a pedestal, every vein and ridge rendered in loving detail. At the base, in flowing script: LORD VIKTOR.

Women knelt before it. Their hands clasped, their heads bowed, their lips moving in silent prayer. Some were crying. Some were touching themselves. One was kissing the base of the idol, her tongue tracing the carved veins with the same devotion Mirin had shown my actual cock.

My mouth twitched.

Then I saw her.

Olivia.

She sat behind the idol — on a chair that was closer to a throne, elevated on a platform. Her dress was pristine — white and gold, the garments of a priestess. Her blonde hair fell in perfect waves past her shoulders. Her face — kind, gentle, serene — was the face of a woman at peace with her purpose. She looked like a scientist. Calm. Analytical. Her hands were folded in her lap. Her expression was composed.

It had been seven days. Seven days since I’d arrived in Milkwood. I’d seen the town from above — the walls, the tower, the construction — and thought everything was fine. I had not known. Had not known that while I was gone, Olivia — my Saintess, my healer, the woman I’d fucked into devotion — had been building a cock-worshiping cult in my name.

"Church is not open yet," Olivia said. Her voice was calm. Polite. The voice of a woman addressing a stranger. "Wait outside with the other women."

I stood there. Naked. Horned. Tailed. My cock hanging between my thighs, still slick with the residue of two virgins’ blood. She hadn’t looked up. Hadn’t recognized me. The church’s interior lighting was dim, and I was standing in the shadow of the doorway.

"Are you going to wait?" she repeated. "Me, Lord?"

I stepped forward. Into the light. My horns caught the candle flame and scattered violet across the pews. My tail swayed behind me. My cock — ten inches, thick, swinging — was illuminated in full.

Olivia’s face changed. The composure cracked. Her eyes went wide — pupils dilating, lips parting, a flush spreading from her cheeks to her chest. Her hands, folded in her lap, began to tremble.

"My Lord," she breathed. "You — you have returned."

Her face pressed against my stomach. She’d launched herself from the throne — crossed the distance in two steps — and buried her face in my body. Her arms wrapped around my waist. Her breath was hot against my skin.

"My Lord. My Lord. My Lord." The words were a chant. A prayer. Her body shook. "I waited. I waited for you. Every day. Every night. I felt you through the bond and I knew you were alive but I didn’t know when —"

I looked at the idol. The golden cock. The carved name. The women kneeling before it, now looking up at us with expressions ranging from confusion to ecstasy.

I looked down at Olivia. Her blonde hair spilled over my hips. Her face was pressed against my cock — she could smell it, the scent of sex and blood and cum, and her body was responding. Her nipples were visible through the thin fabric of her dress, stiff and prominent. Her thighs were pressing together. Her breath was coming in short, hot bursts against my shaft.

I placed my hand on her cheek. Tilted her face up. Her eyes — blue, clear, the eyes of a scientist — met mine. Behind the devotion, behind the worship, behind the manufactured faith, there was something else. Something genuine. Something raw.

"I appreciate your hard work," I said. My voice was quiet. My thumb traced her cheekbone. "However — why are you making those women like that?"

Olivia blinked. "Like what, my Lord?"

I raised an eyebrow. I said, internally: System.

The system window appeared.

[BREEDING POWER INHERITANCE — PASSIVE ABILITY ACTIVE]

[Description: Due to the host’s awakened incubus physiology and the collective devotion of believers, a passive field has been established. Any individual who worships the Lord and feels gratitude toward him to a depth exceeding standard devotion will experience involuntary arousal as a reflection of their faith. The deeper the faith, the stronger the arousal. This effect is passive and cannot be disabled.]

I read it.

Read it again. Looked at Olivia. At the women on the pews, touching themselves. At the women outside, grinding on the railing. At the golden cock idol with my name on it.

Olivia hadn’t done this on purpose. Not entirely. She’d built the church. She’d written the sermons. She’d fucked the devotees and spread the faith. But the arousal — the desperate, overwhelming, all-consuming horniness that had these women grinding on railings and kissing cock idols — that was me. My passive ability.

My incubus physiology, fed by three hundred worshippers, creating a field of devotion-induced lust that turned faith into arousal and prayer into desperation.

I looked at Olivia. Her face — innocent, confused, genuinely not understanding why I was asking — stared up at me. She wanted to get fucked. I could see it in every line of her body, every tremble of her lips, every press of her thighs. But she didn’t understand why she wanted it so badly. She thought it was faith. It was me.

"Want to go for a walk?" I asked.

Her face fell. "Eh? HEhh? HEHHH?!!!"