Chapter 780 - 779 - Olivia can’t have her husband’s cock

Chapter 780: Chapter 779 - Olivia can’t have her husband’s cock

She wanted to get fucked. Right now. Her body was screaming for it — the passive field ensuring that her devotion translated directly into arousal. But I was offering a walk. Her lips pressed together. Her eyes flickered to my cock. To the idol. To the women on the pews. Back to my cock.

"A — a walk, my Lord?"

I lifted her. scooped her into my arms — one under her knees, one behind her back. She weighed nothing. Her dress billowed. Her blonde hair cascaded over my arm. She looked up at me, her blue eyes wide, her lips parted.

"Lord — stop — wait —!!"

I walked out of the church. Through the doors. Into the night air. The women on the railing saw me — saw Olivia in my arms — and their faces transformed.

"Lord Viktor! The Lord has arrived!"

"Please — Lord — come inside us —"

"Lord, please — focus on us —"

They reached for me. Their hands grasping, their bodies pressing forward, their eyes glazed with the devotion-induced lust that my passive field had created. I walked through them. Olivia clutched my neck, her face buried in my chest, her body trembling.

"Lord — they can see you —"

"Good."

I flew. Rose into the air, Olivia in my arms, the church shrinking below me. The women on the steps looked up — their faces raised, their mouths open, their hands reaching toward the sky. I could feel their devotion through the bond — three hundred points of light, three hundred sources of faith, three hundred women whose bodies were humming with arousal they didn’t fully understand.

I landed on the roof of the apothecary. The flat stone surface, cool in the night air, was as good a place as any. I set Olivia down. She stood — her dress disheveled, her hair wild, her face flushed. Her hands went to my chest. Her fingers traced the lines of my muscles. Her eyes followed her hands.

"My Lord," she whispered. "I — I have prepared everything for you. The church. The followers. The faith. I did it all for you. Every woman I converted, every sermon I gave, every blessing I performed — it was all for you."

"I know."

"I — I want —" Her voice broke. Her thighs pressed together. Her nipples were visible through the dress — stiff, straining, aching. "I want you, my Lord. I’ve wanted you since you left. Every day. Every night. The bond — your energy — it’s been driving me —"

I kissed her.

My lips met hers — soft, warm, tasting of incense and tea. She melted. Her body went limp against me, her arms wrapping around my neck, her mouth opening. I kissed her deeply. My tongue found hers. She moaned — the sound traveling through our connected mouths, through my body, through the bond.

I pulled back. She was trembling. Her eyes were wet.

"From now on," I said. My voice was low. My hand found her chin. Tilted her face up. "You will only—"

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO THESE WOMEN?"

The voice came from behind me. I turned. Mira, Helena, Elara, Rosalind — the thick woman, now conscious, wearing a sheet — and Mirin — the young woman, wearing nothing, her hand still over her pussy — had arrived. They stood on the rooftop, having flown or been carried, their expressions ranging from amused (Mira) to concerned (Helena) to territorial (Elara).

And behind them, two more women. The ones from the church railing. The ones who had been grinding on the wood, whipping each other, begging for forgiveness. They’d followed. They were completely naked — having shed their clothes in the flight — their bodies exposed, their eyes fevered.

"Lord Viktor!" they cried in unison, falling to their knees on the rooftop. "Welcome! We have been waiting for you to arrive!"

They crawled forward. On either side of me. Their hands found my legs — their lips pressing against my thighs, my hips, my stomach. Their mouths trailed kisses across my skin, their tongues tasting me, their bodies pressing against my legs.

"Please, Lord," one moaned. "Teach us. Teach us how we can serve our Lord."

The other pressed her face against my cock — her cheek resting against the shaft, her eyes closed, her expression blissful. "Let us serve you. Let us worship you. Let us—"

Olivia’s eye twitched.

"What?" Her voice was low. Dangerous. The calm, gentle scientist was gone. In her place was a woman whose territory was being invaded. "You — what are you doing? He’s mine."

She stepped forward. Her hands reached for me — grabbing my arm, pulling me toward her, her body pressing against my side. Her blue eyes blazed. Her lip curled.

"Let go," she snapped at the two kneeling women. "He’s mine. I found him first. I built the church. I spread the word. I —"

"Grab her," I said.

Elara moved. Fast. The pink-haired, pink-winged, pink-tailed succubus-like woman was behind Olivia in an instant, her arms wrapping around the Saintess’s waist, lifting her off the ground. Olivia shrieked.

"What are you — Elara?! Let me go! He’s mine! Let go of me!"

Elara held her. Firmly. Not cruelly — there was a kind of sisterly firmness in her grip, the understanding of a fellow wife managing a rival. "Sister Olivia. They are trying to do that with our husband."

"OUR?!" Olivia struggled. "He’s MINE! I made him — I made the church — I made the women — I —"

I kissed Mirin. The young woman — still naked, still dripping, her hand still over her pussy — was beside me, her face upturned, her eyes devoted. I pressed my lips to hers. She melted. Her hand dropped from her pussy, both arms going around my neck. I kissed her deeply, my tongue exploring her mouth, tasting the tea and devotion.

Olivia saw this. Through Elara’s grip, through her own struggles, she saw me kissing another woman. Her face went white. Then red. Then purple.

"You cannot do this to me," she whispered. Her voice cracked. "Lord — I waited for you. I waited."

I looked at her. Then at Helena. "Tie her."

Helena moved with the efficiency of a woman who had managed a household — and a husband — for years. She produced rope from somewhere — enchanted rope, probably Mira’s — and bound Olivia to a chair that materialized from the rooftop’s access structure. Olivia’s hands were tied behind her back. Her legs were tied to the chair legs. Her body — pristine, white-gold dress, blonde hair, the image of a priestess — was immobilized.

And then I fucked the other two women.

In front of her.

I started with the first one — the one who’d been whipping the other on the railing. I bent her over the rooftop’s edge, her body hanging over the parapet, the town visible below. I grabbed her hips. Positioned my cock. She was wet — soaking, dripping, the passive field ensuring her devotion translated directly to arousal. I pushed in.

Pah Pah PAH!

"AAANGH~!! Lord — HAAANGH~!! — yes — OUNGH~!! — finally — AH~!! — I’ve been waiting — HIEEENGH~!!"

Olivia screamed. Not in pain. In fury. In jealousy. In the desperate, overwhelming need of a woman watching her husband fuck someone else while she was tied to a chair, unable to move, unable to touch, unable to do anything but watch.

"You CANNOT — do this — to me — LORD — I waited — I WAITED FOR YOU —"