Chapter 824 - 823- Run Away from the Dream

Chapter 824: Chapter 823- Run Away from the Dream

The tall man fucked her. Hard. Fast. The pace was brutal. Each thrust drove her body forward. Each withdrawal pulled her back. Her ass, round and firm, rippled with each impact. The sound, wet and sharp, echoed through the hall.

"You should not have gone deeper into the royal family," the tall man grunted. His hips, slamming forward, drove his cock deeper. "Now we are going deep inside of you."

Pah! Pah! Pah! Pah! PAAAH!

"I am going to take revenge!" Mireille screamed. Her voice, broken by the thrusts, came out in fragments. "I am going to... the royal family... I will... I will kill..."

"You will die," the tall man said. "Your family will die. Your daughter will die."

’Daughter.’

Behind the balustrade, Johana heard the word. Her body, already frozen, went rigid. The hands over her mouth tightened. The eyes, wide and wet, stared through the gap in the stone.

’They know about me. They know I exist. They are going to kill me too.’

The second man moved. His cock, hard and ready, pressed against Mireille’s mouth. Her lips, clenched, resisted. He grabbed her hair. Pulled. Her head snapped back. Her mouth, opening in a gasp of pain, was vulnerable. He pushed in.

Pah! Pah! Pah!

"GLLMMPH...!! GLLM...!! HMMMPPH...!!"

The sounds, muffled and wet, came from Mireille’s throat. The second man’s cock, thick and long, filled her mouth. Her cheeks, hollowing with each suck, bulged with each thrust. Her eyes, watering, leaked tears. Her nose, running, dripped mucus onto the shaft.

The third man watched. His cock, in his hand, was hard. He stroked. Slowly. The pace of a man enjoying a show. His eyes, behind the mask, moved over Mireille’s body. Over the swinging breasts. Over the curve of her ass, being pounded by the tall man. Over her face, stuffed with the second man’s cock.

"Switch," he said.

They switched. The tall man, pulling out of her pussy with a wet sound, moved to her mouth. The second man, his cock slick with her saliva, moved behind her. The third man, taking the tall man’s place, positioned himself.

The third man spat on his cock. Rubbed the saliva over the head. Positioned himself at her anal. Pushed.

"AAANGH...!!"

Mireille’s scream, freed from the cock in her mouth for the brief moment before the tall man replaced it, was sharp. The anal penetration, dry and sudden, was brutal. Her anal, tight and unprepared, stretched around the third man’s cock. The pain, sharp and immediate, made her body convulse.

"GLLMMPH...!! GLLM...!!"

The tall man, filling her mouth again, muffled the scream. The sound, wet and choked, vibrated through his cock. He groaned. His hands, in her hair, pulled. Her head, controlled, moved up and down on his shaft.

Pah! Pah! Pah! Pah! PAAAH!

"GLLMMPH...!! GLLM...!! HMMMPPH...!!"

The three men, working in rotation, fucked her. Each one taking a turn at each hole. Each one commenting, crude and loud, on her body. On the tightness of her pussy. On the grip of her anal. On the warmth of her mouth. On the elasticity of her body. On the way her breasts swung. On the way her ass rippled. On the way she moaned despite herself.

Lightning flashed. The light, white and sudden, illuminated the scene. The entrance hall, the marble floor, the three masked men, the woman on her knees. The flash, like a camera, captured the image. Frozen. Perfect. Horrible.

Thunder followed. The sound, deep and rolling, covered the moans. The screams. The wet, slapping sounds of flesh on flesh.

Rain poured. Through the open door, through the broken windows, through the cracks in the walls. The water pooled on the marble floor. Mixed with the blood. Mixed with the cum that was already leaking from Mireille’s pussy, her anal, her mouth.

Two hours.

The gangbang lasted two hours. The men, taking turns, resting, recovering, and resuming, used her body in every position. Against the sofa. On the floor. Against the wall. Bent over the entrance table. On her back. On her stomach. On her side. Standing. Kneeling. Suspended between two of them while the third took her from below.

Through it all, Mireille fought. Less and less. Weaker and weaker. The poison, not fully neutralized by the healing potion, worked through her system. Her body, which had been strong and athletic and capable, grew sluggish. Her skin, which had been pale and healthy, turned blue. The cyanosis, spreading from her extremities inward, was the sign of systemic failure.

The poison was not just poison. It was a necrotic agent. A substance designed to kill slowly. To shut down the organs one by one. To make the victim suffer.

The men, realizing something was wrong, stopped. The tall man, pulling out of her mouth, looked at her face. The blue tinge. The closed eyes. The shallow breathing.

"Shit," he said. "Is she..."

The second man checked her pulse. Faint. Fading.

"The poison," he said. "It was supposed to knock her out, not kill her. Someone gave us the wrong dosage."

"Fuck," the third man said. "If she dies, the information dies with her."

They stood. Around her body. Her body, crumpled on the marble floor, was a mess. Cum on her face. Cum on her breasts. Cum leaking from her pussy and her anal. The latex suit, shredded, hung in strips from her body. Her skin, blue-tinged and cold, was covered in bruises, bite marks, handprints.

She was still breathing. Barely. The rise and fall of her chest, shallow and irregular, was the only sign of life.

The tall man looked at the butler. "She have a daughter, right?"

Stanley, the butler, nodded. His face, in the candlelight, was expressionless. The face of a man who had sold his employer and felt nothing. "Yes. A girl. Eight years old. She should be upstairs."

"I saw her," the second man said. "Earlier. Small thing. Pink hair."

The tall man laughed. The sound was hollow. The laugh of a man who had crossed a line and found that crossing lines was easier than expected.

"Shall we?" the third man asked. His hand, on his cock, was stroking again. Half-hard. Ready.

The tall man nodded. "Find her."

They turned. Toward the stairs. Toward the second floor. Toward the hallway where the bedrooms were.

Toward the balcony.

Toward Johana.

The girl, hidden behind the balustrade, saw them turn. Saw the masks. Saw the cocks, swinging between their legs as they walked. Saw the cum, glistening on their shafts. Saw the blood, Mireille’s blood, on their hands.

Her body moved before her mind. The hands over her mouth dropped. Her legs, numb from crouching, fired. She ran.

Through the hallway. Past the bedrooms. Down the back stairs. Through the kitchen. Through the servant’s entrance. Into the rain.

The rain hit her like a wall. Cold. Hard. The drops, heavy and fast, stung her skin. Her nightgown, thin and white, soaked through instantly. The fabric, clinging to her small body, was translucent.

She ran. Across the courtyard. Through the gate, which was still open. Into the grounds. Into the forest that bordered the manor.

Behind her, the sounds. Of pursuit. Of boots on wet earth. Of voices, shouting.

"Come on! The girl went this way!"

"She cannot have gone far. She is eight."

"She must be a younger version of her mother, right? Huh? Come on."

"Fuck. She is fast."