Chapter 829 - 828- The Fuck of Hot MIL

Chapter 829: Chapter 828- The Fuck of Hot MIL

The door burst open.

Three men. Masked. Armed. The first one, sword drawn, lunged. The blade, aimed at Viktor’s throat, was fast. Professional. The strike of a trained killer.

Viktor moved.

His body, shifting to the side, avoided the blade by inches. His hand, reaching out, grabbed the swordsman’s wrist. Twisted. The crack, sharp and wet, was the sound of bone breaking. The sword fell. The man screamed.

The second man came from the left. His knife, short and curved, slashed at Viktor’s ribs. Viktor stepped back. The blade, missing, cut air. Viktor’s fist, hitting the man’s throat, collapsed his windpipe. The man fell. Choking. Gasping. His hands, at his throat, clawed.

The third man hesitated. His eyes, behind the mask, darted between his fallen companions. Between the man with the broken wrist and the man with the collapsed throat. The calculation, rapid and instinctive, was that of a professional assessing odds and finding them bad.

He ran. Through the door. Up the stairs. His footsteps, rapid and fading, echoed through the underground space.

Viktor watched him go. His hands, at his sides, were still. His breathing, barely elevated, was calm. His face, expressionless, was the face of a man who had just neutralized two attackers without breaking a sweat.

Johana stared. Her eyes, wide and calculating, moved from the unconscious men to Viktor. To his hands. To his face.

"Who were they?" she said. Her voice was steady. The question of a professional seeking information.

Viktor looked at her. His violet eyes, calm and amused, held hers.

"Nothing important," he said. "They were just men sent by my fiancé."

The word landed.

"Fiancé?" Johana repeated. Her eyebrows rose. The surprise, genuine and unmasked, broke through the professional facade. "You have a fiancé? Wait..."

She paused. Her mind, the intelligence operative’s mind, raced. The connections formed. The fiancé. The academy. The senior class.

"Oh," she said. "I forgot. Elena. Right? In the class with the Crown Prince."

Viktor struck his shoulder. The gesture, casual and congratulatory, was his own. "Indeed. Indeed."

Johana fell silent. The pieces, falling into place, created a picture that was both clear and confusing. A man with a fiancé in the senior class. A man who was fucking his mother-in-law in slums and bathrooms. A man who was arranging to become a professor at the academy. A man who knew about her mother, about Rolando, about the conspiracy that had destroyed her family.

A man who had answers she needed.

"I don’t know what you want," she said. Her voice was quiet. The voice of a woman who had run out of resistance.

Viktor moved. His hand, reaching out, found her breast. His fingers, through the fabric of her shirt, closed around the soft tissue. Groped. Squeezed.

She slapped his hand. The sound, sharp and immediate, echoed through the room.

"Don’t you dare," she said. Her voice was cold. The voice of a woman who had been groped without permission and was not amused.

He chuckled. The sound was warm. Unbothered. The chuckle of a man who had expected the slap and found it entertaining.

"Fair enough," he said.

He turned. Grabbed the rope. The mother-in-law, still standing by the bathroom door, trembled. Her collar, still on, was a leash in his hand.

"Come, mother-in-law," he said. The words, warm and casual, were the words of a man calling his dog. "We are leaving."

He walked toward the door. The mother-in-law, on the rope, followed. Her bare feet, cold on the stone, left wet footprints. The cum, still leaking from beneath her skirt, left white drops on the floor.

Johana watched them go. The man and the woman. The owner and the owned. The beast and his bitch.

She stood, alone, in the underground room. The bodies of the two attackers, unconscious and groaning, lay on the floor. The coffee, cold and forgotten, sat on the table. The lanterns flickered.

She looked at the white drops on the floor. The evidence of what had happened in the bathroom. The cum, thick and visible, was already soaking into the stone.

She closed her eyes.

’My mother. Alive. In the palace. If he is telling the truth... if he knows where she is...’

’What am I willing to do to find out?’

She opened her eyes. Looked at the door. At the stairs. At the space where Viktor and his collared countess had disappeared.

’I don’t know what you want either,’ she thought.

The carriage rolled through the capital’s streets. The night, dark and wet, pressed against the windows. The cobblestones, gleaming with rain, reflected the lanterns of the passing buildings.

Inside the carriage, the mother-in-law sat. Her hands, in her lap, trembled. Her skirt, still too short, still stained, was bunched at her thighs. Her panties, wet and uncomfortable, clung to her skin. Her breasts, barely contained by the bodice, rose and fell with each breath.

Viktor sat across from her. His mask, removed, was in his lap. His face, calm and handsome in the lantern light, looked at her. His violet eyes, glowing faintly, held hers.

She looked at him. At the face of the man who had done everything to her. Who had collared her. Paraded her. Fucked her in alleys and bathrooms and slums. Who had made her piss herself while being watched. Who had filled her with cum and piss and had kissed her like a lover.

"You have already done so much," she whispered. Her voice was broken. The voice of a woman who had nothing left. "Please."

He reached for her. His hands found her clothes. The blouse, the skirt, the bodice. He removed them. Slowly. Deliberately. The fabric, falling away, revealed her body. Her thick, marked, beautiful body.

She cried. The tears, hot and continuous, ran down her cheeks. Her hands, at her sides, didn’t resist. Her body, naked and trembling, was exposed.

He removed his own clothes. The shirt, the trousers. His cock, hard and thick, stood between his legs.

He pushed her onto the seat. The carriage, rocking with the movement of the wheels, added a rhythm. A motion. A metronome.

He slammed into her.

Pah Pah PAH!

"AAANGH...!!"

She screamed. The sound, filling the small space of the carriage, was loud. Louder than the wheels. Louder than the rain. Louder than the horses’ hooves.

He fucked her. Hard. Fast. The pace of a man who had been building toward this all day. Through the slums. Through the alley. Through the bathroom. Through the conversation. The hunger, incubus and insatiable, drove him.

Pah Pah Pah Pah PAAAH!

"OUNGH...!! ... HAAANGH...!! ... AH...!! ... HIEEENGH...!! ... AAANGH...!!"