Chapter 818 - 817- The feel of Human Desire’s futility

Chapter 818: Chapter 817- The feel of Human Desire’s futility

Her hands, already trembling, gripped the skirt tighter. The fabric pulled down, covering another inch of thigh. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. The eyes, dozens of them, were on her. On her body. On her skin. On the collar and the rope and the panties and the cleavage.

’We are going to die. He brought me here to die. He is insane. He is a beast. He is a monster. He brought me to the slums to...’

Viktor stopped walking.

He turned. His eyes, behind the mask, found the group of men against the wall. The big one with the scar. The wiry one with the yellow teeth. The others, four, five, forming a loose semicircle.

His gaze settled on the wiry one. The sharp-faced man who had spoken of killing.

"Go," Viktor said. His voice was calm. Even. The voice of a man giving instructions to a waiter. "Send a message to Gorgon. Tell him to come meet me. In exchange, I will give him information regarding the House of Latvia. Which perished a decade ago."

The wiry man blinked. His grin faltered. The name, Gorgon, was not thrown around lightly in the slums. It carried weight. Danger. The kind of weight that made small men smaller.

"House of Latvia?" the wiry man repeated. His voice had lost its bravado. "That noble house? The one that got wiped out?"

"Fine." The wiry man swallowed. "Fine. I will send the message."

He turned. Left. Running. His footsteps echoed through the narrow alley, fading into the distance.

The other criminals remained. The big man with the scar. The others. They stood around, their earlier confidence diminished but not gone. Their eyes, restless, moved between Viktor and the mother-in-law. Between the masked man with the violet eyes and the collared woman with the milky skin.

More men arrived. Drawn by the commotion. By the sight of a woman like her in a place like this. They came from doorways, from alleys, from behind carts. They formed a crowd. A loose, shifting mass of scarred faces and hard eyes and hungry expressions.

The mother-in-law’s trembling intensified. She could feel them. The weight of their gazes, pressing against her skin like physical touch. On her breasts. On her thighs. On her panties, the white cotton now damp with her own arousal, the wetness visible as a dark spot on the fabric.

"Why did you bring me here?" she whispered. Her voice was barely audible. The voice of a woman who was trying not to attract attention while standing in the center of attention. "This is a terrible place. Please. Let us go. I want to go home."

Viktor chuckled. The sound was low. Warm. The chuckle of a man who was exactly where he wanted to be.

He reached for her skirt. His hand, gloved in black leather, grabbed the hem. Lifted.

She cried out. Her hands flew down, grabbing the fabric, pulling it back. The tug of war lasted two seconds. He won. The skirt rose. Her panties, white and stretched and damp, were exposed. The fabric clung to her pussy, the outline of her lips visible through the wet cotton. The men in the crowd leaned forward. In unison. Like iron filings drawn to a magnet.

"Look at that ass," someone said.

"Fuck, man. Look at her thighs."

"Is she noble? Her skin is so white."

"She is a slave. Look at the collar."

"I want to fuck her. Can I fuck her?"

"Hey, boss. Can we fuck her?"

The words, vulgar and direct, hit the mother-in-law like physical blows. Each one landed on her body, on her skin, on her already fractured psyche. She could feel them. The lust. The hunger. The raw, unfiltered desire of a dozen men who wanted to use her body.

’They want me. They all want me. These criminals. These thugs. These men who have killed and stolen and... they want me. They are looking at my panties. At my pussy. At my...’

Her internal thoughts fragmented. The shame and the arousal, the terror and the heat, the exposure and the desire. All of it mixed together, creating a cocktail of sensation that was driving her insane.

Viktor pulled her panties down.

She screamed. The sound was sharp. High. The scream of a woman whose last barrier had been removed. The cotton, sliding down her thighs, past her knees, catching at her ankles. She stood, bare from the waist down, in a slum full of criminals. Her pussy, hairy and swollen, was exposed. The lips, puffy and reddened, were visible to every man in the crowd. The entrance, wet and leaking, gaped slightly. The clit, engorged, peeked from its hood.

"What are you doing, son-in-law?" she gasped.

The words, torn from her throat by the shock, were too loud. They carried. The crowd heard them. Every man within earshot heard them.

"Son-in-law?" The big man with the scar repeated. His eyebrows rose. "What?"

"She is his mother-in-law?"

"Like, really, man?"

"He is parading his wife’s mother in a collar and panties?"

"That is fucked up."

"That is hot."

The crowd’s reaction shifted. The lust remained, but it was joined by something else. Fascination. The morbid curiosity of men witnessing something taboo. Something forbidden. Something that transcended the usual debauchery of the slums and entered the realm of the truly depraved.

Viktor bent her over. His hand, on her back, pushed her forward. She caught herself against a tree. The trunk was rough, the bark dusty and cracked. Her hands, gloved in lace, scraped against the wood. Her back arched. Her ass, thick and round, was raised. Her pussy, from behind, was visible. The lips, swollen and wet, hung between her thighs. The hair, dark and curly, framed the pink interior. Her anal, still slightly gaping from the previous day’s activities, was visible above.

She cried out. The position, the exposure, the tree digging into her palms. Everything was wrong and everything was right and she couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

He spread her ass. Both hands. His thumbs, broad and calloused, dug into the soft flesh of her cheeks. Pulled them apart. Her anal, pink and raw, opened slightly. Her pussy, wet and swollen, spread. The interior, glistening and pink, was visible to every man in the crowd.

Every man watched.

The crowd, which had been loose and shifting, was now silent. Still. Every pair of eyes was locked on the same point. Between the mother-in-law’s thighs. At the wet, swollen, exposed flesh that was normally hidden behind layers of fabric and propriety and noble bearing.

Viktor unzipped.

The sound was loud in the silence. The metallic teeth separating, the fabric parting. His cock, freed from the confines of his trousers, emerged. Thick. Long. Ten inches of veined flesh, the head dark and swollen, the shaft slick with pre-cum. It hung between his legs, heavy and massive, the weight visible.

The crowd reacted.

"Man, why is it so big?"

"Is it natural?"

"What the fuck?"

"Look at the veins. It is like a arm."

"That is not normal. That is not human."

"Wait." One man, a thin criminal with a patchy beard, looked down at his own crotch. His hand went to his pants. Pressed. His face, confused, shifted to panic. "Why can I not get an erection?"

"What the fuck, man?" Another man grabbed his own crotch. "Me neither."

"Nothing. I feel nothing. I am looking at her and I feel nothing."

"Me too. It is like my cock is dead."