Chapter 827 - 826- The Vulnerable Mother-in-Law

Chapter 827: Chapter 826- The Vulnerable Mother-in-Law

’Because I want to be. Because I want him. Because I am his bitch. Because I have accepted it.’

’Have I accepted it?’

’I do not know anymore.’

Viktor, still holding her wrist, spoke. His voice was warm. Protective. The voice of a man defending his property.

"Don’t say anything to my darling," he said. The endearment, directed at Johana but referring to the mother-in-law, was a statement of ownership. "She is mine. Whatever she is, however she is dressed, whatever she has done. She is mine."

Johana looked at him. At the hand on the wrist. At the mother-in-law, trembling and compliant. At the contrast between the strong, calm man and the broken, willing woman.

She sighed. The sound was long. Heavy. The sigh of a woman who recognized defeat. Who recognized that the fight, whatever it had been, was over.

"What do you want?" she asked. Her voice was flat. Resigned. "Information? Access? Intelligence? What is your price?"

Viktor smiled. The expression was warm. Genuine. The smile of a man who appreciated directness.

"I want details," he said. "And I want you to join me. At the academy."

Johana blinked. "The academy?"

"You are in the first class. The senior class. I want you there. As a professor."

"My age would never allow me to be a professor," she said. The objection was automatic. The response of a woman who had faced age-based dismissal her entire career.

"I have my own ways," Viktor said. The confidence, casual and absolute, was that of a man who had never encountered an obstacle he couldn’t remove. "You already know how strong the Duke family is."

Johana opened her mouth. The protest, the objection, the logical argument formed behind her lips.

Then she halted. Her eyes, which had been on Viktor, moved to the mother-in-law. The woman. The thick, collared, half-naked woman who had been sitting silently throughout the entire conversation.

"Now that I think of it," Johana said slowly. Her eyes narrowed. The intelligence, the sharp analytical mind that had kept her alive for fifteen years, fired. "You are..."

She looked at the mother-in-law’s face. At the features, partially concealed by the disheveled hair and the flush of shame. At the bone structure. At the jawline. At the eyes.

"You are the mother of the headmistress," Johana said. The realization, landing with the weight of a collapsing building, settled over her face. "You are Countess Thorne. The mother of Vespera Thorne. The headmistress of the Royal Academy."

The mother-in-law flinched. Her eyes, still on the floor, closed. The acknowledgment, the identification, stripped away the last layer of anonymity. She was not a nameless slut in a collar. She was a countess. A noble woman. The mother of one of the most powerful figures in the academic world.

And she was sitting in a slum, collared, cum-stained, owned by the man beside her.

Johana looked at Viktor. At the mother-in-law. At the collar. At the rope. At the situation.

The defeat, total and absolute, settled over her. When even the mother of the headmistress, the woman who stood as the greatest potential obstacle to Viktor’s academic ambitions, had been claimed, there was nothing left to fight.

"Fine," she said. The word was hollow. Empty. The word of a woman who had exhausted every option. "I accept. What are you going to get in exchange for it?"

"You will understand soon enough," Viktor said.

The mother-in-law stirred. Her voice, small and trembling, broke the silence.

"I want to freshen up," she whispered. The words were directed at no one. At everyone. At the room. "I need to... I need to use the bathroom."

Viktor looked at her. His eyes, violet and warm, swept over her body. Over the cum on her thighs. Over the milk on her breasts. Over the sweat and the grime and the evidence of hours of use.

"Oh my," he said. The tone was amused. "Where is it?"

The mother-in-law pointed. Toward a door at the end of the room. The bathroom. A small, functional space in the underground hideout.

She stood. Her legs, weak and sore, trembled. Her hands, gloved in lace, pulled the skirt down. The fabric, stained and wrinkled, barely covered her thighs. She walked toward the bathroom. Her hips, wide and heavy, swayed with each step. The collar, still around her neck, caught the lantern light.

Viktor stood. Followed her.

She heard his footsteps. Turned. Her eyes, wide and panicked, found his.

"What are you doing?" she said. Her voice was high. "Why are you following me?"

"Of course I need to make her clean," Viktor said. The emphasis on ’her’ was deliberate. The pronoun of ownership.

Johana, from the sofa, watched. Her eyes, sharp and analytical, tracked the interaction. The dynamic. The relationship between the man and the woman. The predator and the prey. The owner and the owned.

The mother-in-law trembled. Her hands, at her sides, clenched. The lace gloves, white and delicate, were fists.

"Viktor," she said. Her voice was a whisper. "Please. Not here. Not now. That woman is..."

Viktor grabbed her. His arm, around her waist, pulled her against him. Her body, thick and soft, pressed against his. Her breasts, heavy and overflowing, crushed against his chest. His hand, on her ass, squeezed through the short skirt.

She moaned. The sound, involuntary and muffled, escaped before she could contain it. Her body, conditioned, responded. Her hips, despite her protests, tilted toward him. Her thighs loosened. Her pussy, beneath the skirt, warmed.

He pulled her into the bathroom. The door closed behind them.

The bathroom was small. Stone walls. A toilet. A sink. A mirror. A single lantern, enchanted, provided dim light. The air was cool and damp.

Viktor pushed her against the sink. His hands, on her hips, positioned her. His fingers found the waistband of her panties. Pulled down.

She gasped. The panties, sliding down her thighs, past her knees, caught at her ankles. She stood, bare from the waist down, the skirt bunched at her hips. Her pussy, hairy and swollen, was exposed. The lips, puffy and reddened, were still wet with his cum. The white fluid, thick and visible, leaked from her entrance.

"Sit," he said.

She sat. On the toilet. The seat, cold and hard, pressed against her ass. Her thighs, pressed together, trembled. Her hands, in her lap, covered her pussy. The gesture, modest and futile, hid nothing.

The piss came. Warm and yellow, the stream hit the water with a sound that was, in the small bathroom, deafening. The yellow liquid, mixing with the white cum, created a cloudy fluid in the bowl. The scent, sharp and acrid, filled the small space.

Her face, red and burning, contorted with embarrassment. Her hands, covering her mouth, muffled the sound. Her eyes, squeezed shut, leaked tears.

’I am pissing. In front of him. He is watching me piss. He is watching me piss his cum out of my pussy. I am... I am...’

Viktor watched. His eyes, on her pussy, tracked the stream. The yellow fluid, running from her urethra, mixing with the white cum that leaked from her entrance. The combination, obscene and intimate, was something that no man should witness. That no woman should share.

He lifted her leg. One hand, under her knee, raised her left leg. The position, one-legged, opened her pussy further.