Готовый перевод Настучать в бубен / Hit the tambourine: Глава 20-6

Chapter 20-6

* * *

A large hall carefully enchanted and furnished with a very chic and stylish interior. In the hall, numerous very important elves sat arguing about something consistently and confidently, each having their position, thoughts, and arguments. At the head of the table is a beautiful and desirable elf woman, who you can look at and immediately realize is a real Queen of the purest quality. The perception-image seems to move away from the hall and the elves gathered in it. It is visible that the scene takes place not in the palace, but in a skillfully made model of it, occupying a huge hall of a very familiar dungeon, which has now expanded not to a single room, but to a whole complex of rooms. The hall, darkness, silence, inaudible humming and rustling of totems and etheric streams, a fragment of the palace raised above the model, enlarged and approximated by special charms, was dragged closer to Stepan, and he levitated above his creation and actively used the gift.

Around the model of the hall-room, in which quite real figures the size of toy soldiers, repeating everything after their prototypes, conduct their conversation, hover whole hosts of spirits, both small and not so small, both weak and very powerful, helping to maintain communication with a huge envolt, to make it unnoticeable and undetected. And from the fingers of the shaman flow the finest ghostly threads, parts of his spiritual body, entangling the figures sitting in the hall, showing considerable skill in a very exotic school of Thread Magic, which has entered into synergy with envolt, a territorial facet of witchcraft and control of his phantom flesh. These threads entwine all the figures at once, but most of all they are drawn to the Queen, who continues to say something about budget expenditures and plans for the coming decades, about how much the auction purchases of their ward's system have helped them recover.

The moment of decisive action comes. The threads braided all present and now two of them penetrate the nipples of the Queen figure, and another one is braided into a knot around the energy node responsible for the clitoris. A moment and magic go along the threads, numerous commands and manifestations of will, mental-suggestive influences, and witchcraft affecting the mind and body. They go, penetrating through all the defenses, all the obstacles, all the barriers as if they did not exist and Stepan's influences did not exist for the defense. The Queen, who was calmly and deliberately saying something, sharply and unexpectedly stops talking, her eyes bulge when her breasts are literally pulled out of her clothes by an invisible force, and then shamefully and uncontrollably cum, simultaneously giving out a powerful squirt and rolling her eyes in an involuntary grimace of the purest ahegao, as earthly connoisseurs would say.

As soon as she comes to her senses, she tries to say something and call for guards, guards or something else, but it is as if she is not heard. The elves continue the meeting, while the Queen, demanding to deal with what happened, climbs on the table, spreads her legs and begins to masturbate passionately, twisting her nipples and threatening to cum again, right on top of them, if they didn't pay attention to her. They didn't pay attention, and she carried out her threat, immediately opening her eyes again in shock and realization of how warped her thinking was. She beckoned to her guardian, a surprisingly beautiful and cold elf, demanding that she grope the stranger's will in her sweet elf ass. The guardian silently and with the usual cold indifference lubricated her palms and hands with oil brought by the servant, and then began to work out the Queen's ass, first with careful touches of fingers, then with several phalanges at once, and then with a whole fist.

So, with the keeper's fist in her ass, the elf cum once more, realizing again that her thoughts had been distorted again. She's already starting to pick up on the pattern, but striving to find a way out of the situation, realizing that it's not just her that's being affected, but everyone else present as well. She issues a password-alarm to the secret guards sitting away from the room, who quickly arrive at her call, strip, and oil her body, and plug her ass with a vibrating butt plug while the Queen sucks her rescuers. Then the secret guards return to their observation posts, the models of which, along with the figures, circle around Stepan working his magic while remaining part of the overall layout. The queen realizes again, again demands help, again receives it, and again realizes that she has demanded another debauchery for herself.

The queen is getting fucked.

The queen fucks.

She has been fucked by everyone in the hall, cumming on her naked body and allowing to be replaced by new participants, and she continues to give commands, believing that her exposure is over and it is time to deal with what has happened. She realizes over and over again what is happening to her, about every hundred or so who cum on her. The office is full today, even the servants of the lesser races are allowed in, on an exceptional basis, and the Queen remembers that she planned and authorized their visits, having made sure that a couple of hours' fallout would not have any serious consequences for the Palace's administrative apparatus a week ago. The Queen, like the table on which she lies, is already almost invisible behind the liters and liters of seed poured on and into her, but time after time she continues to solve her problem. Each time in a new way. Eating the seed so much that it leaked out of her anus, literally washing out her entire body without harming her microflora, then rubbing it into herself, intending to use it as a ritual raw material for the ritual of cutting off and blocking control, then doing something else equally perverse and shameful, shameful and frighteningly pleasurable.

For a moment, she does not get up from the massive table, lying down and only breathing heavily, blowing bubbles and trying to understand - does it seem that everything is over, or is it another trap, followed by a new humiliation? She is thinking very diligently, not noticing how not elves, but elven women, magicians, officials, heads of departments and apparatuses, even her aunt came to visit, even the mistress of the White Tower came to lick the still protruding nipples of the Queen. She realizes again, panics again, tries again to think of something, finding salvation in licking the pussies of those who licked her just a short time ago, realizes again, looks for a way again, finds a way again, again, again, again, again.

The queen is no longer looking for ways, not even trying to do anything, just not resisting while she is being knocked, fucked by her acquaintances and subordinates. She silently obeys any commands, realising that if she even wants to resist, she will immediately think of another great way. Then the thought comes into her head that this indifferent humility could have been put into her too and she starts laughing, first bitterly and madly, but then merrily and playfully, foolishly and lustfully giggling while her ass is being fucked, having pulled out the gag, by her assistant. And then, when even Stepan's spells and spirits, all his envolts could no longer maintain the harmlessness of such entertainment for the Queen, another figure, familiar to the Queen, appears in the hall, causing an attack of fear, which is quickly washed away by another orgasm.

Intercepting Stepan's threads, the horny girl tugs at the Queen's nipples and clitoris with those threads, playfully and mockingly asking how she liked her gift? Promising that this is only the first of their meetings, the first of such events. She will gladly return all the elven hospitality to her. A thousand plans, tactics, and techniques mature in the Queen's mind to counter such a threat. Goodness, they were indeed prepared in advance, but the demoness only asks - does the Queen seriously think she will be allowed to realise this threat? In response, the Queen throws herself at the illusion-figure of the demoness, vengefully and violently licking her to orgasm and thereby banishing her. Then she dressed, cleansed herself, finished the meeting, and did not even bring up the subject of the strange obsession. She had definitely banished the evil creature, so there was no need for additional checks or reflections on the subject. But it is necessary to take the first portions of the long-ordered alchemy to enlarge her tits, to get at last the udders worthy of the Queen, as well as to pierce her nipples with decorative rings, which have a spell of gradual suppression of intelligence and cognitive abilities.

Yes, that's exactly what she'll do, and by the end of next year she'll be dumb enough to have forgotten how to read most of the languages ​​she knows!

The illusion-figure of the demoness crumbles to dust, and the threads controlling the figure are pulled back into the special gloves worn by the real demoness, not the puppet one levitating beside Stepan. With a satisfied nod at his success, she bends upright in the air and covers his face with her left foot, causing him to moan indignantly and cum on the other foot, which pressed his cock against his belly. Drops of semen fall on the huge model, but do not reach it, being intercepted by the will of the horned beauty, who attracts the shaman, who is outraged by the actions of his slave and starts kissing him. The latter, of course, is her master and controls his faithful toy in every possible way, so well that there is no need to even think about how, when, by what method he subdued her, no need to check this subordination or even try to improve or change it. But now he suddenly stopped wanting to reprimand her, so he decided to punish the infernal contagion with hard and strengthened by the advanced master's level of tantric magic sex, right in the levitation that had become weightlessness for the two of them.

And beneath them glittered the ever-changing shades of magical sounding model-envolt of the palace, but it seemed to them both that the whole world, the universe was beneath them at that moment.

* * *

A huge city by the standards of the fantasy-medieval world, even from a bird's-eye view, characterized by a very orderly development, like an image of the Sun. The Sun shines above the city, bright and at its zenith, flooding the world with midday warmth, despite the fact that at this moment in time it is winter and night. The Sun shining in the sky is not exactly the Sun that is a star, but a literal manifestation of the will of the deity that illuminates this piece of reality. In a way it, this luminary of the divine level can be considered, if not a direct incarnation of god, then its materialized and stable-static attribute, which is not rejected by reality. And hence the power of the deity is so great here as nowhere else, as no one else's, hence he rules here by his will. A constant blessing, even a group of them, a bunch of protective and signaling charms hidden in the rays of the sun, as well as the ability to harvest three crops a year in the entire immediate area is just a nice bonus here.

Stepan doesn't give a shit about this bonus. And he doesn't enjoy it too much. Because it is not for nothing that they say that you can look at the Sun through a telescope only twice - with the left and the right eye. He does not look through the telescope, he does not look at all, but falls slowly, smoothly, barely moving on the surface of this sun, becoming at the same time incredibly light and equally incredibly invisible, covered with several extremely specific higher spirits, skilful manifestations of witchcraft, classical enchantments and concealing fields, as well as a whole bunch of other ways to make himself invisible and invisible, like an offence in the eyes of a bribed traffic policeman. Not to mention the fact that his stealth is enhanced by a good dozen envolts, each of which is additionally fuelled by totems, territory, and enhancing spirits. At this moment, Stepan had enough trump cards in terms of stealth to stealthily approach even this fucking sunshine. He's almost matched in stealth to the empty bucket-armed protagonist of Skyrim! Okay, okay, he's already lied here, he's already exaggerated, but he's still very stealthy.

Invisible enough to land directly on the surface of the Sun, simultaneously real and immaterial, shifting and shifting into another dimension, becoming five-dimensional or one-dimensional when needed, shrinking into a point. It is enough to walk on the back of the Sun, which is looking behind the city below. Yes, in other circumstances, the god, who bears the sonorous name of the Sun, would probably notice an extra passenger on his attribute, no matter how he hides, but that's the only reason Stepan started the diversion operation down there. Nothing dangerous or bloody, he was not a terrorist, no matter how he was persuaded in all sorts of ways, no, only non-lethal methods of influence and a lot of sick fantasy.

People start dancing in three large-scale squares at once. At first they danced and moved in an inaudible rhythm, and then new and new forces joined the resulting group, until the whole market began to dance. And the guard dances together with the pot-bellied peddler, and the huge iron bright paladin in full gear, twirls in a dance the merrily laughing drunken girl, who, it seems, could not even realise that there is some terrible shit going on. In each of the taverns, every innkeeper gets the simultaneous idea to roll out barrels of wine and give free drinks to everyone. For some reason, the singers start singing obscene songs about the Sun, although it can be considered a prayer, but somehow it's even uncomfortable, considering the context. Beautiful and very pleasant-smelling flowers, reminiscent of tulips, begin to grow from the paving stones and roofs of the houses, except that the smell of these flowers has an effect comparable to concentrated hashish, but without addiction or unpleasant hallucinations - just a cheerful mood. A bunch of birds, which flew into the city despite the forbidding charms and prayers, began to bombard the guards, the Inquisition, and other authorities, who fell out on the streets under the strong and cunning, but still not absolutely omnipotent charms.

The sun has something to look at. It, like those who pray to it, is rapidly penetrating through the spells and disguises that covered those spells, trying to understand who made this mess and why. Trying, and then realizing that such a large-scale and useless action could be arranged for the sole purpose - to divert attention from something really important. Immediately, the already on-duty reinforced guards near all the important points, the first temple was put under siege, St. Magdalena was dragged away under a fivefold guard, ready to shoot to kill with battle wands and prayers in the squares at every too harsh sneeze. The sun remembers how recently the enemy and sacrilegious one seemed to have struck his blow, remembers how he almost succeeded in striking it, remembers, and therefore does not make repeated mistakes. Neither the deity himself nor those who sincerely worship him. The lesson is too fresh, too well remembered.

But not even the most obvious thing, the most fucking simple and impossible thing at the same time, would have occurred to the Sun-Face. What if the blow this time would be struck not on his temple and blood, not on any of the important figures, not on the King Priest, but on the Sun himself? It is nonsense, it is impossible. A direct confrontation with the god no one can win. Sun-Face checks this direction and doesn't sense the approach of another deity. This is nonsense, with which Stepan completely agrees, touching the surface of the Sun with his palm, which has become incredibly black, touching and as if letting the threads of blackness into the material of the attribute. The threads turn from black to the same bright sunny, mimicking the medium perfectly. So perfectly that even a god would not immediately be able to calculate such an attack. And they also hit the flesh-light attribute a few minutes ago, just as the entire clergy and the god himself were distracted by the foolish jokes of an unknown joker.

Stepan attacks. He strikes with what he does best - suggestion and confusion, because all his leveling is in one way or another focused on that, and he is stronger at it than any of his other sides. The blow makes even a god slow down. It makes him dull a little, takes a few seconds to burn out the web of doubt and darkness on his mind with light. And he burns it out, through all the overrides, the jumper blocks, through all the envolt catchers, including a couple of miniature solar city layouts that amplify Stepan's influence. The light of the sun burns away the influence, clears the mind, and burns away the stun. Just in time for the god, who has almost completely shifted into his best creation, fearing that the enemy seeks to destroy that creation, an ever-present attribute of reality, to realize his mistake. He had time to notice what was hidden from him, hiding trap after trap, and to think and mumble audibly, for the whole hail, putting an image-word into the heads of all who heard and believed in it, to say: “Oh, fuck...” - He had no time to finish.

The miniature altars and totems set up all over the city, some recently delivered and some replacing pieces of the city, like that inn, which was in fact one huge totem, worked properly. They were just missed in the commotion, not noticing their power gains, the preparation of one particular invocation. An appeal to a spirit that was so great that it was foolish to call it so. The godlike entity, which did not live from prayers and did not require such, reluctantly appeared in the real world, choking everything around it with its power, and the Sun-Face was still busy burning out the remnants of the stun and could neither react, nor defend, nor strike, nor even run away. The pressure of the spirit, which had long been preparing to come, preparing to reveal itself, and therefore broke through into reality instantly and in full force, rather than slowly and exposing itself to blows in the moment of vulnerability, is like a sweet and heady fruit ale pouring into the ears and mouth, on the tongues of the entire population of the city remains the taste of heady cherry, and the entity is already striking, has already struck, even before its appearance, just only now this blow has become truly unimaginable and irreversible.

The spirit was not a killer. The Sun would repel a deadly attack. Nor was he a curser or a bringer of foulness, which was the sort of thing the Sun-Face could overcome, certainly not in the place of his power. If not completely overcome, he would reduce it to a terrible wound, or even a not too terrible, but definitely not completely missed enemy pitch. The spirit didn't kill or curse, it fucking blessed all those within a radius of the city and another eight kilometers from it, where God's grace was thickest in general. The spirit blessed and the old got their youth back, the crippled got their limbs back, the blind got their sight, the sick got their health. It is hard to call such an attack, hard to call it hostility at all. But the effect of the divine essence, which left the instant it made its move, even before the move was finished, was not limited to health, rejuvenation, or healing.

Beauty and desirability came next. All those exposed would become more beautiful than they were, the ugly would turn into cute, the pretty into beautiful, and the beautiful into something just wow. And this beauty, as well as health, will be with them until their last breath. Even dying of old age, until their last month of life, they will look beautiful, only at the end of the rapid decline. Even their descendants, in general all those who live on this land, in this city, will become healthier and more beautiful little by little, if they get the right to call themselves a resident of Iyastar. And at the end came the last influence, which guaranteed that only girls and women, nymphets and milfs, beauties and seductresses would be nice and beautiful, because all the men present in the sunny town over fifteen winters had their sex changed by the spiritual distortion of reality. So that the features of the old appearance were visible, if necessary, rejuvenated, but already in a female form. The Queen Priestess looked perplexed at the mantle fluttering around her lush, DD breasts. The green-skinned leader of the Bright Paladins looked frantically at her pants, unable to find what she was looking for. The rejuvenated Archilictor, who looked barely forty years old, dropped her face into her palms longingly.

And in the sky, the Sun-Face, who had also fallen under the influence of the entity that was recognized as the deity's equal, was raving, incarnating into reality and striving to find, to find, to track down the shaman who had instantly disappeared in a chain of teleports, not paying attention to the fact that the multi-meter tall figure covered by the sun's rays was perfectly distinguishable by truly divine tits and ass. The second sun over the city had shrunk, changed its shape and split in two, resembling a pair of tits with nipples sticking out. The shaman continued to leave by other paths, combining his movements in space with sending out hundreds and hundreds of deceptions that would prevent the enemy from finding him. He also giggled disgustingly in the process, because he had successfully activated one of the super-elite mass area tokens just after the mass gender-bender.

The token with the name “Sweet Cheap” was effective only on beautiful women, only in a certain territory, and only while these women were in the territory. If they left, the effect would be gone; if they returned, the effect would return. The effect that makes women quite normal to the idea of trading their own bodies for money, if the buyer is at least a little handsome, and also if there are no other urgent matters, and the sex itself for a few coins will not interfere with their business or does not threaten their goals. And yes, to buy this love will be extremely cheap. An ordinary beauty who used to be just a worker will give in all holes for a coin, but for privacy with the Queen Priestess will have to pay no less than a full purse of silver, but better gold. The mind of victims themselves will think out the reasons and logic of why it is necessary to accept money that is ridiculous for them and what amount to demand.

At the same time, in the whole territory of the token, strangely coinciding with the territory of the blessing of the godly spirit, it is impossible to get sick and get infected with STDs. Any man who perfectly understands the impropriety of the whole situation, unlike women, will immediately forget about everything suspicious as soon as he leaves the zone of the token's control. Passing notes and spying don't work either. To the observer or to the curator reading the report, everything described will seem completely normal, and the fantasies of the inventor are just an unfortunate joke or the result of a nervous breakdown. Stepan kept laughing and laughing, realizing that the sunny capital would become the capital of red lights in the very near future, all thanks to him and his amazingly successful joke.

He fell out of the last in the long-long chain of teleport, giggling and almost cumming from fun, and next to him his horny little sister was laughing, waving her tail cheerfully and pinching her sister's nipples of the fifth size breast.... because Stepan, in the course of his and only his cheerful idea to joke properly with the sun-lovers who offended his little sister, somehow did not take into account, he also fell under the blessing of the spirit. No, after such a feat she has enough free currency to buy another gender-bender token, systemic one, as it is and the corresponding meta-skill, but the little sister pinches the nipples of the laughing and cumming popadanka so cheerfully that she forgets more and more that once she did not have such tits at all.

It's so nice to forget for his lil sis.

* * *

A vaguely familiar office, furnished in soft and soothing yet austere tones, as well as an easily recognizable hypnotist doctor in the chair opposite, looking at Stepan attentively with cross pupils. The young man looks over Dr. Laghan, dressed in an emphatically businesslike, but so tight and seductive suit, feeling his eyes involuntarily sticking to the fabric-accentuated forms of a very respected specialist. The latter only smiles, reclining in the chair and throwing her stocking-clad legs and black patent-heeled shoes directly onto the heavy doctor's table. Stepan, who already knows that he adores looking at Dr. Laghan's sweet feet, habitually makes a great effort not to start kissing them. Instead, he reclines back in his chair, feeling his cock throbbing, gripping the armrests with his hands and trying not to let on that he's about to cum. Will come. Splash out. Will spill out. At the mere sight of Dr. Laghan's legs. Or her tits. Or her eyes. Or her now invisible buttocks. Dr. Laghan is a pleasure to look at. And to cum.

"Well, Stepan, we have done an excellent job of overcoming your natural resistance to passionate attraction, so our therapy can be considered almost finished and completely successful." Her smile is now a little predatory, but at the same time affectionate and soothing, making the patient nod quickly, quickly, and smile contentedly. "As you can see, the proper erotic hypnotherapy can easily cure any silly thoughts in your head, can't it? Well, if the patient is still immersed in hypnosis, because you, Stepan, of course....."

"I've never been hypnotized by you." He picked up on it immediately, feeling a flash of pleasure shoot through him and struggling to hold back the seed spurting out of him. "I can't be hypnotized. Any thoughts of my mind being affected are nonsense, unworthy of my time, and must be forgotten."

She smiles even more contentedly, dropping her shoes right on the table and suggestively wiggling her fingers, clad in tight stockings. The air in the office smells of cherries, sweet and intoxicating, and Stepan does not notice how he cum at the mere sight of those moving fingers. He cumming under the mocking good-natured laughter of his favorite doctor. Their conversation, however, continued, the doctor asked about the latest news and events of his life, commenting separately on some moments, especially she liked the story with the steppe woman, its ending and blushing Stepan, who admitted that he had made her cum and forget, so that she wouldn't say any nonsense and wouldn't interfere with her thoughts about smoky slipery peasant bitches with sweet juicy slipery peasant village tits, got the doctor's approval and assurance that it was quite a normal reaction on his part, nothing to worry about at all.

"Hmm, what an interesting situation, Stepan, such a curious one. Tell me more about this Mark on your friend." Seeing his indignant look, she shuts his mouth, which was already open in indignation, with a touch of her foot, almost forcing him cum again, and then calms him with a tender, almost maternal tone. "Well, well, Stepanushka. I remember. I remember that you can't stand her, that you had to risk and fight because of a bad girl, my good man. Let you tell your doctor all about her Mark, about her mommy's Mark, and then we'll think together how to punish the bad girl, how to punish her bad mommy."

And he talks, he tells, but he feels his mind drifting too far away, making the office seem not like an office but like a roundel of dreams, images of those dreams, and the furious, frustrated Dr. Laghan stops their conversation, nodding at the dancing walls and putting her shoes back on, instead unbuttoning her jacket and shirt, revealing her scarlet tits, her dark magenta nipples, and her firm belly, contoured and taut.

"We have so little time, my sleepers are tired enough as it is, it's hard for them to keep us here, honey." She speaks quite incomprehensibly, but somehow understandably, though these are not the words and understanding you expect from a hypnotist doctor in the ordinary office of a practicing psychologist. "I highly recommend you, Stepan-chan, to take a walk around the city. It's good for you. It's pleasant. It gives rest to the mind and joy to the body. You want to go for a walk in the city, Stepan. You should walk the streets. You want to see the Dantmark. You know, you remember which alley they're waiting for you in."

"Yes, Doctor, I want to go for a walk." He exhales tiredly and contentedly, not opening his eyes from the scarlet tits, tits, tits, tits, tits. “I want to go for a walk. To look at Dantmark. I know where to go. I know.”

He really does know from somewhere, he remembers, it's unclear how and why, he nods agreeing with everything and, to his shame, he falls asleep right there at the table in the doctor's office. The doctor... what is her name, why does he, to his shame, forget her name every time? Name? Whose name? What does he forget?

What?

* * *

The shaman woke up fully rested and in a great mood, smiling at the new day and the new possibilities, as if he had seen some motivational advertisement from TED talk. With a yawn and a sweet stretch, he slid off the bed, lazily casting a spell to make all the seed stains on him and on the bed disappear, trying in passing to remember what he had dreamed about that night. There was only a pleasant emptiness in his memory, so it must have been dreaming again about nice luscious lubed peasant bitches with sweet juicy lubed slippery peasant tits that had caused such a stain on his reputation. Well, if only there was someone here who could see that stain and charge him with it, and not just the controlled bloodsuckers and processed servants alone. Sylvia only said hello to him, not taking her eyes off some alchemy treatise delivered to her not so long ago, reading the yellowed and in some places blurred by time. It was because the creators of the treatise had skimped on household enchantments and the previous owners hadn't taken care of the condition of the treatise that she'd bought it so cheaply, and the section she needed was still intact.

Wishing Sylvia good luck in her scientific and practical research, he silently packed up and set out resolutely for a walk and some relaxation in the city. He stumbled and fell just before he reached the door that had become a passage through the darkness, but he managed to regroup and get to his feet quickly. The young man looked around bewildered and even called a few spirits, because it could certainly seem to him in such a relaxed state, but he had the impression that he had been kicked in the ass by a very heavy sample of shoes. Either army boots, lead shoes, gold sandals, or uranium flip-flops. He blinked a few times, almost daring to check his mind for signs of suggestion. Such clear images of something strange and unreal shouldn't just roll in. He was a shaman, but he hadn't called at all in the last twenty-four hours, so there was no place for traces of figurative fragments.

Yes, he had almost decided not to go anywhere, but to spend the day on the long-neglected complex checks of mind and senses. He had the necessary knowledge, and he promised himself to apply it regularly, and even applied it regularly, but so many things came down, as if he had been pressed by juicy sweet lubricated slippery slippery slimy peasant tits of a cute peasant bitch, and he was a little paranoid about this facet of paranoia. Just the usual types of protection and reinsurance, as well as conspiracy in general he maintains.... It didn't matter, he was waiting for the city, unremarkable streets and, perhaps, a tavern. He wanted not so much to eat and drink as to be in the company of people, and in a normal body, and not a disembodied spirit hanging over someone else's shoulder.

The weather wasn't great, to be honest. The first rain for many days, almost a torrential downpour, but some juicy sweet lubricated slippery greasy sissy village force kept him from looking at the opened heavens and returning to warmth and dryness. To the long accustomed and obligatory distraction and slight distortion of appearance, the spirits of warmth and dryness were added, warming and preventing from getting wet, as well as another spirit of rain, which prevented the drops from touching the body and clothes, eating them one millimeter away from the touch. The shaman wandered through the rainy city, listening to the spirits of wind and storm that played in the clouds, concluding that it would be better not to show one's face at all for the next day and a half, and that the inhabitants of the slums and the port should be prepared for flooding. The port would be covered with magic, and there were geomancy-enhanced embankments to keep the river from washing them away, but the slums would be flooded.

The uncharacteristic summer rainstorm was not so unexpected. The Earthman had received a warning from his spirits, his totems also had a weather control and tracking module. The increased precipitation was no surprise, but what did surprise him was his reaction to the walk. If at first he was haunted by classical thoughts in the style of “why didn't I sit at home?”, then after the first half an hour he caught a kind of melancholic positive mood, wandering along the flooded alleys, looking at the rare passers-by, He jumped on rooftops, putting the spirits of animal jumpers in his feet, looked up at the sky, catching the drops of their tears with his peaceful face, and as if he washed away all the accumulated stress and fatigue.

Despite the protection of the spirits, he was still a little cold. The weather attack was too strong, and he had separately ordered the spirit not to increase the heating. There was a certain charm in the cold wetness, too. And so, wandering through the puddles, he came to this alley. It was a dead end near a small tavern, apparently for people in the know, because the sensory spirits of the meanings had caught a strong odor of blood, iron, and greed, which was translated into the image of local bandits. He stood there for a moment, once again drying himself off and waving his hand to disperse the steam from his body, and then he saw another silhouette in the same alley. Dressed in a simple, but lovingly sewn and fitted dress of classic peasant cut, lushly-breasted and beautiful, wet to the skin and thus beautiful completely unfamiliar to him and never seen before, she stood in the alley, and almost transparent from the rain wet cloth stuck to her, translucent so that nothing was hidden from view. His gaze involuntarily stuck to the nipples sticking out from the cold, dark pink and incredibly sweet, which were pleasant to caress with the tongue and kiss softly and tenderly under the cooing voice of a cute, lubricated peasant bitch with sweet, juicy, lubricated, slippery peasant tits while she stroked your head and squeezed the twitching and spurting semen in her tender and demanding hard palm.

"Hello, Pann, but why are you getting wet in the rain?" She addressed him, splashing her hands and thereby showing off her wet massive milky mommy-babies even more, involuntarily making the shaman fix his eyes on them and forget everything, for example, the fact this completely unfamiliar to him and never seen before, this gorgeous and savory peasant bitch with sweet juicy lubricated slippery peasant tits addressed him by name. "Let's go into the warmth, get warm, have some hot tea, eh, Pann?"

"Yeah, let's go, Gelda," he answers, not taking his eyes off the beacons shining through the fabric, filling his entire consciousness with their wet, sweet juiciness. "Into the warmth-h-h-h-h..."

The tavern was surprisingly empty. The tavern was closed for the day, though there was no stench of cockroach poison inside, or why would such places be closed in this world that didn't know the meaning of the word sanitary and epidemiological service. The twilight was dispersed by a couple of oil lamps and even candles placed on the tables. The candles were not simple, but some magic ones, though Stepan did not look closely. He was preoccupied with other things. When he got into the warmth, the heat inside hit his face like a down pillow, a completely unfamiliar and never seen by him sweet and savory peasant bitch immediately pulled her dress down, exposing juicy sweet wet peasant tits, shaking them several times in front of the shaman's eyes. Wet, covered with raindrops, huge and firm, but tender and soft, like good dough, they beckoned him, and he did not even notice how he began to talk to her, to tell her something, sat down at one of the tables, on a hard bench, and the peasant rested her ass on the table.

From the side came what appeared to be an innkeeper, though she was dressed as something more like a mercenary or a member of the night guilds. It wasn't the cut of the garment that showed it, but its utility and comfort. Though she probably wasn't that comfortable, because the tits of the short-cropped black-haired lady with the slightly island features were a real eye-catcher. But not in comparison with the juicy sweet slippery peasant tits of the luscious, savory peasant bitch, to which the young man, already breathing hard from passion and dizziness, immediately returned his gaze. The air in the inn was surprisingly odorless, smelling of some herbal mixture and a fruity note, though it was from the wet skin of his companion. He was a lousy conversationalist, though; he just nodded and hummed and pretended to listen to her, not to look at her tits, sweet and juicy, savory peasant tits.

The jar with honey and jam was immediately poured on the villager's chest. She poured it on herself, he didn't even have time to ask, and then ordered him to undress. Stepan slipped out of his clothes in a truly army standard way, as quickly as he dismissed the rest of the retinue and spirit watchers, sending them back to the spheres with a direct order. The savory village bitch was shy of the spirits looking at her, so the shaman a priori chose the most successful option to deprive her of her shyness. The first kiss, sweet and honeyed, it turned into greedy licking of tits, tits, tits, the best tits in the world, the most delicious and sweet, the juiciest and savory, the most peasant and slippery. It was as if some time had fallen out of his head, and he came to, standing at attention while the innkeeper painted some funny and unimportant patterns on his body with a small brush, dipping it in the very jam he had licked off the peasant tits. He didn't care, though. The peasant was shaking her tits in front of his face and all he could do was move his pupils back and forth, watching every movement and remaining completely still.

His immobility was rewarded by the innkeeper. She grasped his cock tightly, whispering some nonsense in his ear and squeezing his scrotum with her other hand. He didn't even cum, just spurted out, like a reaction to being hit in the knee with a neurologist's hammer, nothing more. Another whisper, he answered something, and then slowly, as if remembering how to move at all, he took a couple of vials from the short-haired woman's hands, pouring them on his hands, inhaling the stupefyingly pleasant and dizzying smell of berries and herbs. Gelda immediately stopped shaking her peasant tits, lying down on her back, and he loomed over her, beginning to smear the juicy sweet peasant slippery, so divinely slippery tits. She didn't hesitate to moan, and neither did he, especially when another pair of female hands behind her started rubbing oil into him, especially thoroughly on his cock and balls, which made him want to cum, but he had already promised not to.

Again, the loss of the picture. He came to his senses sitting on top of a completely naked stranger he had never seen before, on her soft and warm belly, slowly and surely jerking with her breasts, slippery lubricated juicy sweet peasant tits, repeating over and over again some silly rhyme, a rhyme about embarrassing tits, sweet pussies and obedient boys while someone behind his back whispered in his ear something important, very important. So important that it just didn't fit in his head, so he had to forget the secret as soon as he heard it. And the sweet slippery lubed peasant bitch Gelda only smiled silently, only occasionally encouraging him with some comment. And her peasant bitch talk turned the shaman on so much that he almost begged her to let him cum, to spurt, to finish, but he only got hotter and hotter, wishing it would never stop.

At some point, the eyes simply roll back, the body shakes from a new orgasm, right between the peasant tits, juicy and tasty, bitchy and slippery, so big that nothing else fits in the brain, only tits and darkness, only tits and emptiness, only tits and someone's insinuating, calm and gentle voice, understanding everything and promising the best, the most pleasant.

He opened his eyes, sitting at another table. On the table in front of him lay Gelda, a beautiful and unfamiliar savory peasant. She is lying on her side with her tits on the table, right in front of his face. His tongue tasted of berries and sweetness, his loins were on fire, his balls seemed to be made of lead, so much had accumulated in them that he wanted to spill it out. He would have to spill it, but first he would have to kiss those cherries, tense and desirable, the most desirable of all the cherries he could see and imagine. He was about to take with his lips the tantalizing nipple of the village beauty, but then he was pulled back, like a cat that had come to the sour cream. Pulled back and reprimanded in a stern voice, turning him to face himself, forcing him to look into bright and delightfully sweet eyes with cross pupils, eyes that he could have sworn he'd seen somewhere before, but that he'd just imagined, yes.

"What are you up to, little brother, huh? Are you licking my sweet mommy's watermelons? Ai-yi-yi-yi, what a shameless man, how can you do that?" From the words of a young girl, no older than the shaman himself, the guy wanted to fall under the ground and cum at the same time, so nice was her touch. "If you want a mommy Gelda's flower, give sister Lana something good? Sis really wants to be a mage, wants to be strong, and she's small and weak, how can she protect her mommy's titties? М?""

For a few seconds, he is dumbfounded, and then a satisfied smile slips onto his face. He closes his eyes and turns to himself, to his System, fixating on his little sister and wanting to gift her. First to go were the stats, just enough to keep such a lovely and such an annoying girl occupied for at least an hour while he quietly licks the sweet juicy lubricated slippery lubed peasant tits of the sweet peasant bitch! Lana froze, and for a moment he seemed to remember that she was not his sister and he was not her brother, but it was unequivocal stupidity, no other way. He looked into her eyes and all the answers came to him, all the answers became clear and true.

"Oh, oni-chan, you're such a good boy....." She pulls the words leisurely and sluggishly, but at the same time she carries the process of aura restructuring surprisingly well, as if she were an experienced gifted person, not a simple girl, the daughter of a pretty peasant, who differs from her peers only by her sweet pussy and strange eyes, and horns, and tail, and under the tail....

With a shake of his head, the smiling shaman shifts his focus to Gelda and in one motion he is inside her, simultaneously licking, kissing and even biting with his teeth the nipples on her breasts, on the succulent peasant girl's tits. He doesn't feel individual orgasms, the whole process of coitus has merged into one continuous pleasurable lump of pleasure, somewhere between the individual episodes of what is lost is the moment when he spent both charges of gifting properties from his patroness to get his little sister a little more distracted, while the brother fucks her peasant mother, fucks her, and when the strength is temporarily gone, when even tantric practices do not help to find those strengths, simply licks her juicy village tits, a boon by the same practice he can make the peasant girl cum even just by touching the cherries with his lips.

It was as if he had not fallen asleep or lost consciousness. He only closed his eyes for a moment, staring at the soft tenderness of the village tits. A moment later he realized that he was sitting at the table again, new again, lazily jerking his cock, looking at the innkeeper dancing on the next table twirling her body in a way that no other gymnast could, even though outwardly she was so militant. In his hands, the Earthman clutched a glass with some drink, on the table lay sleeping and innocently smiling Gelda, and his mood was surprisingly calm and peaceful. You know, the kind of mood with which one is ready to love the whole world and a little bit of the neighboring universe in return. His little sister is sitting next to him, putting her legs on the table, putting them almost in front of the face of the sleeping peasant bitch, sipping from the glass glass, which is not quite appropriate in a cheap inn, the same drink as he is.

"Well, how did he, Stepanushka, decide how you're going to complete the quest? Alone or in a team?" When asked about possible teammates that would help him solve his first difficult grade assignment, his sister winked at him suggestively. "If anything, I'm always ready to join a const-party, brother, and believe me, just believe me, I'm very good at twisting the heads and thoughts of those you point to."

"Hm. Yes, that is, yes. I will complete the quest. I accepted it, and the reward is wow, little sister." There was a slight ringing in the shaman's ear, as if gold had struck a gong, but he ignored the migraine prick. It wasn't the first time. "But I accepted it myself, I will complete it myself, otherwise I am ready to bet that the Patroness of the All-Merciful will definitely record a failure if I try to cooperate."

"Come on, brother, don't be such a jerk!" The accusatory tone of his little sister's voice made Stepan's fingers clench harder, forcing him to shoot another stream of seed into the air unexpectedly and suddenly for himself, feeling how the reserve was slightly reduced when the patterns on his body drew out some magic and transferred it into a quick regeneration of a thick and magic-rich white mass even stronger than usual, thanks to the properties. "Accept me into the group, and I'll whisper in your ear, help you with advice, not deeds, since that's the way it is. Accept me, brother, just invite me and I'll accept, accept me and we'll be one friendly guild together, like in Voraft, hmm?

She clung to him sharply with her whole body, light and petite, pushing his palm away and clutching his scrotum and penis in her strong and even hot hands, from which the heat crawled into his body, into his mind, into his brain, which was now not in his head, but in his balls, along with the bubbling and eager to be poured out seed. Stepan, to his shame, could not find a witty answer, and whimpered helplessly, to the triumphant sweet laughter of his little sister. Focusing his gaze on her, he was suddenly jerked by a sudden thought, as if a heavy golden sandal had fallen on thin ice:

"Not Voraft, but Warcraft. It's a shame to be a gamer and not know such truths, every earthling has known them for years..." Bewilderment gave way to some kind of incorrectness, and the mind, as if filled with honey and molasses, which is why all the intelligence skills are simply forgotten, as well as the control of one's thoughts, flares up with a realization that is already quite alarming. "How do you even know about Blizzard? You know, they are here, in this world..."

The realization came instantly, and then his reflexes reacted instantly. He doesn't really understand what it is about his little sister that disturbs him, only that she doesn't speak and behave as she should, and he is too relaxed and lost, too hard to think. Such markers in his system-given reflexes are hammered out in a hundred-meter font and require an appropriate response. Breaking the distance, setting up defenses, monitoring the situation, and then a sharp and powerful run of aura through the nodes, an attempt to flush out the likely mental attack, to bring the mind back to clarity and sharpness. Except that to fully utilize this tactic, he had to strike before breaking distance, and that risked hurting his little sister, which he didn't want to do. He had to go straight to defense, at the same time releasing the spiritual tentacles from his body, feeling how hard it was for them to leave his body because of the patterns the innkeeper had painted on it, how they hung as if they had a dozen spiritual weights on them.

Sis reacted without a hitch, immediately appearing at his side and in one motion tearing off Stepan's hastily constructed witchcraft plot. It's not for nothing that witchcraft is considered too slow for direct combat at close range. And the spirits did not hear his call weakened by drawings, to Stepan's annoyance, who did not want to offend the beautiful and pleasant to him personally innkeeper with good tits and excellent sucking skills, but recognized the fact her patterns to him only problems. Sis solved some of those problems by trying to help her brother, and immediately, without even letting him say a word and offer to retreat in tandem while he covered and she controlled the situation by hugging him and poking him lightly, not at all painfully, but with an offensive sneer with the pad of her finger on the tip of his nose.

"Boop." She looks at him with a twinkle in her eyes, and he looks at her, perplexedly trying to understand what exactly he just did and why there is such a viscous sweet mass in his head. "Sit down."

"Sit down.” He obediently agreed to the order and felt the cold, not warm stool beneath his bare ass.

"Good boy." The praise from the surprisingly calm and as if suppressing irritation from my little sister causes a quick spurt of semen from the tip of his cock, as if the micro-orgasm has caught up. "Now forget it."

"I forgot." Immediately, he accepts the rules of the game. "Forgot what?"

"Close your eyes, brother." Instead of answering, the little sister continues her strange game, but why not play along? "Fall asleep and think about mommy, her sweet peasant sli..."

It was a sin not to fall asleep to such a lullaby, and Stepan, who had originally intended to pretend and not fall asleep, dreamed of Gelda and her forms, falling into a deep hypnotic trance. He was brought to his senses by the tapping of a fingernail on the surface of a wooden table, and he woke up and woke up very strangely, as if in the middle of a sentence, his own and not someone else's. And, quickly realizing what he was talking about, he immediately continued the thought, under the approving nod of his sister, who put her feet on the table, almost in his face, poking him with her feet.

"...Sylvia has such a fetish. She obviously liked to make me lick her feet, but I'm indifferent to them. I'm much more interested in succulent, sweet, luscious, lubed, slippery, peasant tits...." It is quite difficult to explain to your favorite big sister that you are not attracted to lick her demonically lovely and damn tasty feet, if she is always gagging you with her foot, and is ready to remove it only after kissing each toe and caressing the sole. "Mm-mm! Now, I'm sorry, but no, I won't lick your feet, sis, and you can't make me. I know how infernally good you are at spells and brainwashing, I know, but my will is absolute, and the very idea of me being under your hypnosis or enchantment is so ridiculous that I'm going to cum, honestly. Now, now, now, now, now! Oh, your peasant mommy. Fuck, I'm gonna splatter all over the floors!"

A change of frame. A new table, on which a peasant woman he had never seen before, Gelda, his little sister's mother, was sitting and shaking her lubeded, slippery, juicy, sweet, luscious tits, while he was methodically, measuredly and relaxedly fucking the innkeeper's ass, and feeling so light, as if every muscle except his cock was relaxed and completely free of tension. He felt as if he were a puppet on strings, as if he were not the one moving his pelvis, not the one spanking the bulging buttocks, not the one releasing into the eagerly clenching ring around his cock, lubricated, it seemed, with the same oil as Gelda's tits. Sis is talking somewhere behind his back, chirping like a nightingale, a songbird caressing his ears, telling him how good he'll be in her company, how much fun they'll have playing together, all games, all games, telling him so much that he can't remember, can't realize, can't understand, can't hear.

Like playing dolls with her. It's nice for girls to play with dolls, right? So he makes her happy by showing her his own dolls. For some reason these dolls, which he pulled out of the darkness under the table as if it were necessary, seem to him familiar and not quite the toys that should be given into the hands of strangers, but his sister is not a stranger. Not a stranger at all, he agrees, nodding and finishing. Again and again, for what time in a short time he poured his cum into the ass of an unfamiliar innkeeper, or the slippery peasant tits of a sweet peasant girl, losing the thread of thought and just taking everything he was told on faith. He laughs together with his little sister, showing her how he can play with his dolls, and she, looking with her magic eyes with pupil-crosses, sees, sees the connection between dolls and puppets, sees how they freeze, how they play, how they cum at his will. He apologizes to her sincerely for not being able to let his little sister play with these dolls, too much protection he has put on them, not even in a week will he remove it, not reconfigure the doll so that it obeys and does not harm his little sister.

In return, he plays with them the way she would like him to. He listens to her chirping and puts his will into the dolls, making the dolls think something new, do something different, overlook something obvious, and agree with something unusual. He does it, and then, laughing slyly together with his little sister, he cum on the face of Gelda, who opened her mouth wide and rolled her eyes in pleasure, giving away the memory of the changes he made in the dolls through the dolls, of the fact that he made these changes at all. A ringing thought, literally a golden thought almost knocks him out of the trance, he instinctively realizes that it is impossible, it is impossible to make these changes so as not to remember about their making at all, but the hot bosom of the attractive selyanka squeezes a new peak out of him, he literally falls on top of her, pressing his face into her tits and abruptly loses all strength to argue.

The little sister starts chirping and explaining again, saying that she was playing with dolls, even though she was playing with his hands, and it turns out that he was peeping.

" It's not good to peek, brother, especially at your beloved sister!" She said sternly and strictly, stroking Stepan's cheek while he was almost purring, or even without any almost. "It would be fine if he peeked at his sister changing clothes, or swimming in the river, or with her girlfriend, or even with her mother, but no, he peeked at his sister playing with dolls! You can't be like that, Stepan, bad brother! Apologize to your sister, apologize well, apologize and forget it!"

In shame, he almost whimpers his apology, but sis knows a great way to apologize best. A moment later, it's like he's blinking again, rising from his knees as his little sister gets up from the table, shifting her legs and adjusting her dress. The taste of sweet cherries is especially vivid on his lips, his body is bursting with pre-orgasmic pleasure, and his mind is melting with what Stepan is experiencing. He doesn't quite understand why, but he reaches for his little sister, hurrying to spread her legs again and... and to do something else, something that would make the taste of cherry, the taste of nectar, the taste of the most vicious pleasure come back and become even brighter. She only laughed, pushing him away with her palm, pulling him in for a hot and greedy kiss, as if pulling back some part of the crazy sweetness that filled him. Thinking became easier, but harder, too, because the strange lethargy returned along with the melting of his mind.

And again he came to his senses in the middle of the conversation. The innkeepe licked the pussy of his sister who had thrown her legs on the table. Mommy Gelda wrapped Stepan's cock in her lubricated and slippery, luscious and sweet, juicy and peasant tits, lazily not even jerking him off, but just giving him a relaxing massage. Well, to be honest, such a massage would definitely not relax his whole body, but nevertheless, he literally spread himself like a jellyfish on the soft armchair he had brought from somewhere, which did not fit into the surroundings of the cheap inn. He would have mirrored his little sister, throwing his legs over the table, but he had no strength for that, just as he had no strength to look at his little sister's face but at her playfully exposed toes.

"Basically, you're right, sis, it really is possible." He's pleasantly surprised at how knowledgeable sis is in the magical craft, even shamanism too, not directly showing her level, but certainly keeping the conversation on an equal footing. "This little shit is such an imba when it comes to repelling an ambush, but knowing his nature, it's not hard to fool. First of all, he's still in rollback, and if I summon him again, I'll need to spend a token, and I don't have a lot of tokens, so I'm not going to waste them, unless I know for sure that there's going to be a fight and I need defense badly. But if he's standing guard. let's say, to fool the Standing with the Dagger."

While he was thinking about how it would be more effective to deceive such a spirit with its golden ability to anticipate and prevent a successful attack by hitting Stepan with all its might, his head itched with incomprehension. It's nice to have a discussion with a knowledgeable interlocutor, who turned out to be his sister, but why are they discussing with her how to attack unsuspecting Stepan more effectively, despite all his defenses? From these thoughts, even the toes on the sister's legs seemed to fall out of his focus, and his hands involuntarily reached to pull down the slippery tits, to push the savory peasant away, but she, on the contrary, sharply squeezed him in her grip much harder, and he forgot, forgot, forgot....

Forgot?

"...readjustment of the concealment field in a classic cross, plus a clear intention not to inflict damage, any damage, even a scratch. Illusions, mental stupor, thought fixation. You can hit with the sensual sphere, preferably in conjunction with pleasure. You, sister, are excellent at it, and sedation, yes." With a kind of pride narrates the shaman, describing the problems that will face some impudent and absolutely nothing threatening to him demoness, she decides to break through the defense of the shaman and not to disturb him before time. "But you will have to hide yourself too. First of all, in the information spectrum of sifting the ether. The essence of Standing's trick, in fact, is the same as fortune-telling or clairvoyance, but in a special way twisted and enhanced by proper aspects. If some creature of the vice of Lust tries to twist me in this way, it will deceive the Stand one. But, sister, don't tell anyone, or you'll never know. I believe you completely, of course, and I don't suspect you of anything, I can't suspect you, I won't suspect you, I'll only trust you, trust you completely, always trust you... You're not gonna talk? Please, sis, please, please."

She squinted her beautiful eyes, in which some parts of the cross-shaped pupils sparkled and seemed to shift and change tones, smiled, and nodded like a dummy. This immediately calmed down the shaman, the small and cowardly paranoid part of which did not want to reveal the secrets of his defenses even to his sister. But she could be trusted with everything, absolutely everything, she was so trustworthy.

"I'll be as silent as a fish in a river, brother, by all gods and temples, I swear it!" Slightly pathos and deliberately solemn, but at the same time surprisingly artistic, especially considering the aunt still working with her tongue on her pussy. "I'll be damned in Inferno, brother if I tell anyone about your secrets! Here's a cross for you, even two crosses!"

She even points her finger at the cross that is in her squinted left pupil, and then closes her left eye and opens her hitherto closed right eye. There the second pupil-cross dances and fascinates with unreal colours. It was really funny so that he giggled with her, laughing cleanly and so freely that it was more pleasing to him than when Gelda opened the grip of the peasant tits and began to suckle. He laughs as if to switch off with his laughter and orgasm, feeling with the edge of his consciousness how unfamiliar to him and never seen before, the juicy, luscious, and lubricated peasant bitch with sweet, slippery, lubricated, juicy peasant tits drinks a sip of semen, restoring his sister's strength too. The shaman, before rolling his eyes and passing out, also recovers his strength, only with a meta-skill. Otherwise, the reserve drawn out by the patterns on the body will show the bottom.

He opened his eyes again in a new position, feeling that he was not just sitting in the chair, but on the arms of mommy Gelda. Her slippery farm tits resting their lubricated nipples against his back. He misses the start of the conversation again, whipping his head around a few times, interrupting in mid-phrase eliciting a disgruntled and annoyed smile from his little sister. After coming to his senses, he continues his monologue, outlining the pros and cons of the contracts available to him with the higher spirits, and pointing out strengths and weaknesses. Locking Secrets and Piercing Spike elicited such admiring sighs from her that he got all proud. Still, in their lines of work, they were really cool and powerful exotics that couldn't be priced, simply because no one would sell such contracts at all.

He had read about how much trouble the divine magic protection against unauthorized teleportations on the Middle Islands had caused to the ill-wishers, which prevented pirates from coming to visit in very heavy forces to anyone grateful to those pirates for good things. The Spoke can easily open this defense, even without much effort, if we compare it to the nightmare fuck-up of the Worm Domain. Locking is much more situational, but there are many things in which the analog of a very ancient and powerful relic of the Keeper of Oaths can help. It also does not require additional donations and locks any secrets with extreme reliability, even from those considered masters of stealing such secrets from the heads of victims. And all without the participation of the said Oath Keeper!

"...And the third, the newest one, well, it's just the best....." Stepan was about to start bragging, but then he was pushed as if by a gold bar in his side, though it just seemed like that, because his chair's leg slightly broke and it jerked, not hard, but enough to make the palm of the palm of the village stranger with huge, juicy tits, which was slowly caressing his shaft, squeeze a little harder than usual and make him cum. "Ooooh, Mommy, it feels so good....."

And while his little sister was annoyingly caring to bring him back to normal, and he was kissing his mommy's smiling lips and licking her peasant tits, begging her to make him splash-splash one more time, a truly golden idea came into his head. No, not to keep something from his little sister, of course not, just to tease her a little, nothing more. She's so funny. She'll understand, she'll laugh with him. And even if she didn't, he was always ready to apologize, just to taste that sweet cherry flavor on his tongue.

"...Well, his self-titled Little White Goat is all there is to say about this spirit, yes. That's a perfect description. What do you reckon, sis, even if he is the higher one?" And now she'll ask him what his useless and useless spirit can do. He'll tell her. She'll be surprised, and maybe even angry, and he'll apologize to her on his knees. "Not always, you know, it is not always possible to get from the system what you initially want, not always the higher spirit will be delightfully gorgeous, it happens in all sorts of ways."

Not a single lie, the thought shines with gold in his head. Not a drop of deceit, because his little sister knows how to feel words and play with words, but he is somehow sure she will not suspect this primitive deception, this play on words, which cannot deceive her. She is too used to the fact her pretty little brother always obeys his big sister in everything. But in one thing Stepan was wrong, in one thing he was wrong. His little sister believed him at once but did not ask him again, only praised him and kissed him with her lips on his forehead while he was spraying again into the hand of the luscious peasant bitch who was caressing him, an unfamiliar and never seen mommy with sweet, juicy, lubricated peasant greased slippery tits. He even had time to feel a slight pang of resentment that the joke had failed and an equally slight shame that he had deceived his little sister by calling the higher spirit useless, even though Goat was almost the best contract he had ever had.

But those thoughts flashed so quickly, out of his brain along with the seed. He forgot about them even before he fell asleep, leaving his eyes wide open and listening intently to his little sister. She had such good advice that there was no question of following it. He trusted and believed her, her advice, and her orders in every way possible. He was certainly ready to fulfill almost any of her requests.

When he opened his eyes again, he realized he was already dressed, only his pants were down, and his underwear was missing. Otherwise, he could walk out of the still rainy city, where it seemed very little time had passed. In front of him stood, also fully dressed, some very sweet, lubricated peasant bitch with sweet juicy slippery lubricated peasant tits, lowering her dress and exposing her udder right in front of his face, he even had to raise his head a little to clearly see her tense nipples, almost tasting their cherry flavor. Oh yes, he's on his knees, right next to the exit of the dark inn, and there's something he needs to do at his little sister's request, only he's not quite sure what exactly.

"Well, Pann, what do you see before you, eh?" Mommy Gelda's question caught him suddenly, as sudden as the tossing of her sweet tits, left and right, one after the other alternately, the playful caresses of warm and strong palms. "Let's make it two, shall we? You see the juicy..."

"Sweet!" He immediately answers, although he does not quite understand the rules of the game, but, judging by her smile, he has guessed quite well how to fit into the game. You can take a pie from the shelf and generously spread it with cherry jam.

"Lubricated?" Mommy continues their strange game, immediately starting to pour some oil from a small bottle onto her breasts and spreading the oily liquid over her smooth and tender skin.

"Slippery!" The logical continuation of the previous word causes a satisfied smile and an approving nod from the unfamiliar and never-before-seen woman.

"Peasant?" This word almost made him laugh, smiling a stupid smile. This word suited her so well, she literally screamed with her whole appearance that she was a peasant.

"Tasty!" The smile becomes dumber and dumber, the thoughts in the head become more and more stupid rapidly decreasing in number until they disappear completely, disappearing in a pleasant and sweet mist.

"Bitchy?" The caress in her voice can make anyone feel tender, drown them in that caress and bliss, pleasure and vicious passion.

"Ti-i-i-its!!!!" He literally screams the last word, realizing that he won their game even without knowing the rules of the game and from this the shaman cums, finally understanding why he is on his knees and why he took off his pants.

Semen poured onto the fabric of her dress and the floorboards, but he could physically feel how much he still had left, how much more he could pour out, just not onto the floor, no. After all, he had his sucking puppets and, he was quite sure, they would happily swallow his treat and ask for more. He felt the warm palms of his sweet little sister's warm hands on his balls, and it was as if he could feel the subtlest fleck of some magic inside his own subtle and physical body, inside his bubbling and boiling supply of semen, but of course, he was only imagining it.

The tavern door slammed shut behind Stepan, and he stared at the slowly dissipating clouds without turning around, walking back to the mansion, avoiding the large, deep puddles. He was in the best of moods. The walk, albeit a long one as the System clock showed he'd spent a day and a half wandering around the city, had cleared his mind and reduced his anxiety. He wanted something light and pure. Even the urge to pump was gone, displaced by a renewed and more intense indolence and laziness, but the shaman didn't care about that now. No, for the next couple of weeks he would only rest and fuck his vampires in every possible way. The thought made his groin tingle with anticipation, and his cock seemed to almost spill right into his pants. Maybe even play with more than just the dolls. He still hadn't thanked the family of steppe shamanesses for all the good things they had done, and it was obvious to him now that he had been completely wrong to be so tolerant of them and not to use their Mark to his satisfaction and advantage.

Yes, that's exactly what he should do. All the more so because this entertainment would bring him quite an active pumping by the forces of his Favourite Milf! Stepan's mind conjured up an image of the couple, mother and daughter, painted in a parody of the traditional steppe garb, with expanded tits and asses, with stupid faces that directly embodied the local insulting stereotypes about steppe bitches. Singha remembers saying that her mommy could kill for such jokes or innuendos? Wouldn't it be fair if he fucked them both right in the brain like that? He imagined the fucking mare saying to him something like: ‘Singhga do nak-tak white dick, love nak-tak, give nak-tak! Five copper ash-zhah, five copper good-long!’ - the image proved surprisingly exciting and nearly made him cum, and the lazy and as if slightly gilded thought of how he even knew stereotypes about cheap and available stepparents and how exactly such stepparents expressed themselves was legitimately ignored by him, as was the inaudible sound of someone's infinitely distant and equally infinitely powerful facepalm.

Everything is nonsense, but life is beautiful!

* * *

The morning awakening, like every other awakening in the last week, brought a rock-hard hard-on and an irresistible urge to release his semen. Artemia was next to him in a tantric trance, lying on the bed, face down on the pillow, as still as the doll she liked to pretend to be. But, as every morning, he didn't want sex, no, he wanted something more primal and quick, even a little shameful. Ridiculous really, to make a habit of jerking off in the morning, having a natural harem of a few alternatively living but very handsome and in every way beautiful beauties. However, they would not condemn him, they could not physically condemn him, and if they did, he would quickly replace that condemnation with all sorts of approval, he had already changed it a couple of times.

With an order out loud, previously entered through the doll, which sometimes made him think that this trigger-activator could be used by anyone who knew the right words, he woke Artemia. She stretches gracefully, kneading her already perfectly warmed with magic body, and then sits cross-legged on the chair. Stepan settles down on his knees, closing his eyes and imagining not Artemia, who is still too fragile and graceful, but some imaginary attractive peasant bitch with sweet, juicy, lubricated, slippery peasant tits, imagining how these tits shake in front of his closed eyes, how their vibrations hypnotize and mesmerize him, and he cums right on the floor. Thick ribbons of seed stain the parquet as Stepan squeezes the last drops out with a satisfied groan. As soon as he stands up, Artemia removes her foot from his face, taking his place, licking up her all-time favorite deliciousness, and here he has only intensified that desire, not re-created it. For vampires, his seed was indeed of incredible and nutritional value. As Sylvia had once told him, a single blowjob gave her almost as much as a full draining of some random traveler. Yes, not gifted and not particularly large, but completely healthy and not sick, for the price of one blowjob.

The shaman went to Sylvia's study after releasing a bit of tension from the unremembered dreams. She sat quietly listening to music from a rather expensive box, though the music recorded there was not particularly pleasant to Stepan. The heavy and somewhat penetrating melody of something like flutes and the beating of drums created a rather unsettling atmosphere, not soothing, but as if it were fearful. But Sylvia liked it, she could listen to this shit for hours, and Stepan was tempted to pull the images of some Bach and Mozart out of his memory, feed them to the appropriate spirits, a couple of which he even had on his contract, and then let the vampire learn the power of Earth culture. It wasn't even laziness that stopped him, but the fear that he would be forced to do this all the time. Good creativity, whether music, books, plays, or illusory records-films, was categorically lacking in this world. All of the above was available but in a very narrow segment, if not to count inn singers or fairground artists, but they were not considered high art.

"Good morning, pet." Sylvia obviously heard him just by her breathing and heartbeat. Her properties and racial pumping allowed for a very powerful use of advanced Sensitivity, just for controlling the surroundings of the material world. "Tonight was a beautiful night, but this morning seems too bland. Make it a little more pleasant for me."

With these words, without opening her closed eyes, she slightly changed her posture without getting up from the chair and in one movement rolled up her dark blue, almost black dress, exposing her pale legs and thighs, slightly spreading them and showing that she had put on black stockings with garters, expensive, lacy and status, but decided not to wear any underwear. The hint of what her ‘pet’ should do was more eloquent than anything else, to which Stepan only smiled, chuckling to himself. Every day he found himself getting more and more turned on by this game of slave and mistress, more and more excited by the realisation of his power and how Sylvia did not realise that she had no power. He wanted to listen to her demands, orders, and whims. He wanted to watch her dominate, while realising that Malter was not even a word or a gesture, just a wish, a manifestation of her ‘’pet's‘’ will that separated her from becoming a motionless doll, a seed-sucking inanimate whore, a barking dog, a caring maid with a mania for anal sex, or any other sub-personality that he had created and invested in through the doll.

This only made it more pleasant to play along with her, to fulfil some of her whims, clearly knowing that it was his will to fulfil them, to fulfil them up to a certain limit, and then sharply take control. Appreciating the spectacle that opened before him, and aroused. Sylvia perfectly seduces. Even knowing about her skills, you still get turned on against your own will, the shaman thinks for a second about whether he should bend his mistress right in that chair, spanking her on the ass for bad behaviour, but the arousal is strong at the same time, but not overwhelming, but relaxing. He just doesn't want to waste time and energy proving his power when he's already well aware of it and the bloodsucker is unable to realise it.

"As you say, my mistress." Modestly and happily, trying to speak joyfully and submissively, he answered, kneeling before the vampiress, feeling the softness of the carpet beneath his knees, so well learned over the past few days. "With great pleasure!"

He begins kissing her cool skin near her knees, going higher and higher, running his lips and tongue along the inside of her thighs before his caresses lead him to her already aroused pussy. Outside of the constant control of blood magic, he has no unnatural desire to caress his toy with his tongue, nor does her crotch seem like absolute ambrosia to him. However, the piquancy of the situation, the realisation of his power, easily replaces what is missing. And he starts kissing and licking, squeezing the pea of the clitoris with his lips, running his tongue along the lips, kissing them, shoving his tongue deeper, openly enjoying the taste, the situation, the power and the hard, demanding hand of the vampiress, which lies on the back of his head, controlling the pace, determining the intensity of caresses. Now she was behaving exactly as she would have behaved in case of her victory, if Stepan had remained under her control until now - imperiously, without regard for his pleasure, quenching her passion and thirst for dominance.

He involuntarily gulps air with his mouth as the cumming Sylvia releases him. She changed her pose, pulling off her dress, remaining in just her stockings. Stepan involuntarily thinks that the other stockings would suit her perfectly, snow-white stockings, enchanted to the last thread, being more magic than matter. Improved systemically, already of immense power originally, the artefact would indeed be a good fit for the bloodsucker. But he still puts off the thought that came to him deeper, preferring to gift the super stockings to his favourite little sister. Sylvia doesn't let him think for long, pulling him in again. He obeys without complaint, mentally laughing at the irony of the situation, starting to cover the buttocks, pale and lush, of his submissive toy with kisses. Kiss after kiss, until he put his face between two such tantalising bulges, starting to lick the other lips gently and leisurely, again exciting, again turning her on, using tantric magic unmercifully, making her cum extremely quickly.

Sylvia nearly tore the upholstery of the chair with her arms, roaring with pleasure as Stepan, who had temporarily stopped breathing, brought her to a new peak, covering her most intimate corners with his caress, enjoying the absolutely clean cool flesh, the tart smell of aroused woman and a light note of jasmine perfume. It was not long enough, after five minutes Sylvia was moaning in her voice, praising her pet and demanding to continue, not to stop, not to stop, and he fulfilled her orders gladly. When she let him go again, literally falling into her chair and switching off the box that had been playing all this time with a single movement, her face was so full of contentment that she almost shone like a second sun, even though the first one couldn't be seen in the tightly sealed vampire mansion. Rubbing his hair, the woman runs a long finger over his lips and cheeks, collecting her nectar, and then pokes that finger into the shaman's lips, giving him another taste of his next victory.

"Well done, little Pann, you're very good." This praise almost got him. He almost laughed. He laughed, but at the last moment he managed to turn his laughter into a satisfied and puppy-like smile. "You didn't cum, did you? Hmmm... Letting my pet pour on my beautiful body - how much I adore you, my darling, I don't recognise myself. Mm-hmm, you have a hundred heartbeats to cum on me, any part of me you deem worthy of you. I believe, pet, that you'll make the right choice."

A week ago, he would have definitely poured all over her face, but this was somehow too vulgar. He wasn't in any hurry to cum on her pale, juicy tits, either; they still hadn't been lubricated with some kind of massage oil, and he wouldn't apply it in a hundred heartbeats. Cum on her feet, pleasuring Sylvia even more, laughing inwardly at how much she believed she was in control of the shaman? No, he'd already done that several times in a row. Should he cum on his buttocks? Or ask his Mistress to use her hands? So many options, so little time to make a decision. A real time crunch, only positive, not desperate. With some hesitation, he leans against her, still on his knees, and presses his cock against her legs, which she laughingly lifts. He stands up too and manages to wedge himself between her soft and strong calves, staining her pallor with his whiteness a moment later, moaning softly and at the last moment restraining himself from burying his face in her feet. Somehow, in the last week, he'd been letting Sylvia and his other dolls put their pale feet on his face too often. It was as if the coolness of their perfect skin was freezing his thoughts away.

Laughing a quiet laugh, full of a sense of superiority, Sylvia activated the twisted form of bloody control, drawing the poured seed to herself and swallowing the white ball, covering her eyes in bliss. Still, there was a lot of power in his seed, and it tasted, if Sylvia was to be believed, arousing all the vampire senses and overloading them a little. She wouldn't lie for the sake of flattery, so Stepan recognized this dubious compliment as completely real and true. After talking to the vampiress for a while, he left her in the company of the box, though he was tempted to continue talking about the use of blood magic to work with the spirit world, or to fuck her in a normal way. Instead, she again coaxed her beastie to lick a little, and Stepan, again laughing inwardly, complied with her order. This time she used an acoustic activator, a trigger word, if that's what it seemed to her. In fact, she just said some incoherent gibberish, which the young man did not even remember, and stared at him expectantly, burning with a thirst for affection in the emotional sphere. Then the smiling shaman had an intuitive naïveté, and he mechanically and leisurely moved again on his knees and immediately began licking, caressing, squeezing, and helping himself with his fingers, bringing the victim to orgasm.

He left the satisfied doll. She returned to listening to the same tune. He went in to have a little chat with Rowena. She returned from a business trip. She successfully traveled around the city and collected rumors. The red-haired beauty, who was having fun, threw her panties at him, pointing to the place in front of her chair where the young man, who had not dressed since morning, could most comfortably kneel, and then started pelting him with a lot of the latest gossip and confirmed facts. By the time the shaman couldn't stand the even motion of her hand and the gentle touch of the soft cloth wrapped around the rod, pouring the cloth white, he already knew a lot of things he didn't need to know. Though other moments, on the contrary, were interesting. The vicissitudes of the same criminal strife were surprisingly amusing, especially when the people themselves sometimes behaved like anecdotal idiots from gangster movies. Stupid evil, in fact, is not funny at all, but very scary if there is no way to overcome it, but still, some moments are homerically funny.

Three thugs managed to snatch from a lucky pickpocket a hidden gold earring with an emerald, which he had not even stolen, but found. Well, if he had found it then it was not stolen, and therefore it was not honored by the Night Brothers as a pickpocket's booty. If he had stolen it, then yes, they would have to share it with the pickpocketer or beat him up even more so that he wouldn't talk about his rights. Because they are fighters and seniors, almost bosses, and he is just another bum, not even particularly talented, and therefore if he decides to complain to the seniors, he will get more from them. That's how they came to the house of one of the three and began to share an earring and a stone. A difficult task when there are three of them and only one is of value. The host put out a modest dinner and a not-so-modest amount of cheap booze. Everyone was drunk and full, and then look - the earring was missing! It's gone, and the third one, the one who put the drink, as if he took a sharp gulp of something! He ate it, the bastard!

The asshole did not confess either after the hard words, or after the beating, saying, “I didn't take a shit, you're all clay-diggers, I knocked your houses into chimneys and stoves." The beating became harder. Several times the house was broken and the earrings were never found. The asshole was beaten harder and harder until he was done. Here, as in a cult movie, someone decided to look inside the dog, that is, in the corpse, having previously opened the corpse. Here it turned out to be even more fun, because the remaining couple cut the deceased lengthwise, letting the intestines out, only to find out that the asshole died as a result of the autopsy. And the earring was never found, only blood and shit soaked them from head to toe, and now they began to suspect each other and naturally proceeded to a stabbing. The stabbing ended with the unconditional victory of one of the parties, which started to think about what to do with this shit. But first, he decided to find the earring, and he still had to explain the two corpses somehow. Gold could soften his fault in the eyes of his seniors.

There was no earring on the body of the second dead man, and the last of the thugs remembered that it was the bastard who had assumed that the first dead man had swallowed the earring. Again the autopsy, now of definitely the corpse, again a lot of blood and shit, stench and nerves, but the earring was not found. The guards found the earrings with the help of a few of old Prostyrus' men. The jewelry belonged to his favorite granddaughter and was part of a set of protective type jewelry, which covered from curses, poisons and mental. And each part of the set could help them find the bearing of the other. So they found the house of the three degenerates and found it a bloody mess of shit. And the earring, about which they started to ask the captured moron, to which he only answered that he didn't know where that little shit was, for which two of his friends had died. It had fucking disappeared somewhere.

And the direction-finding amulet showed where. The boots of the last of the trio had shit on them, and the earring that had fallen to the floor was stuck to that shit, while the blood and dirt only made it stick together more. When the murderer saw with his own eyes that the jewelry wasn't even stolen, he laughed frantically and began to drool and shit under himself, losing his mind on the spot. Rowena knew this story because the part of the set responsible for mutual search helped to provide Artemia, as such charms were a reversed beacon with additional functions. Of course, everything had to be done under serious promises, and the final fitting of the parts of the kit was done personally by Big Grandpa, of course, having checked beforehand whether she had left something from herself in those blanks.

Stepan laughed heartily with her, and though his laughter was a little muffled, because it was hard to laugh while licking a vampire's pussy, but the woman clearly understood him. The shaman didn't want to lick her pussy, but she asked him so nicely, saying some gibberish beforehand, and also sincerely considering him a plaything of her bloody parent... well, he couldn't resist, he just couldn't. Again, while he was working with his tongue, Rowena was also working with her tongue, only in a different way, continuing to recount the latest news. One of those news stories even made him almost pull away from the seemingly cherry-sweet pussy, would have if she hadn't pressed the back of his head and squeezed his thighs tighter, and then quickly, quickly induced Rowena's building cascading orgasm and loss of control of her body muscles. As he recovered and tried to catch his breath, the bloodsucker swore at him and promised to complain to Sylvia, but he shut her up with a kiss, sharing the taste of her own womb with her, and then again with tantric magic on her already relaxed mind.

When she came to her senses, she didn't even remember the fact he had behaved with her in a way that wasn't quite obedient and submissive. It was, of course, bad and not in the line of “good pet” behavior. He would repent to Sylvia as he continued to play his part and laugh inwardly. However, the subject was heartbreaking. He was not lazy to awaken Rowena through the doll, as if to shake the veil of sweet honey from his eyes, forcing himself to use the doll. Lately, he kept trying not to touch them at all, knowing full well that he had already subdued his toys and they were completely submissive to him, and therefore he need not check their compulsions, he need not check them, not at all. Banishing the stupid thoughts, he forces Rowena to say exactly what interests him, suppressing his desire to order her to put massage oil on her sweet pale tits. No, he was well aware of the hypnotizing and mesmerizing beauty of a woman's breasts covered with fragrant oil, especially if it was some unfamiliar to him and never seen by him cute peasant bitch with sweet juicy lubricated slippery peasant tits. But the subject of her latest news had struck a nerve with him, literally, awakening almost a primal rage.

So, what's the case?

And the fact is that his honorable employer, albeit his former employer, still managed to get the city and its higher authorities interested in his problem. And they began to solve these problems. And, more importantly, he managed to spend the damage he received and the death of the best expert in mouse extermination as part of the damage from that experiment with the call of stone snot. He had been saved by the fact that he wasn't asking for money, such claims Master Miller's retinue would have been able to send nicely. No, he was just asking to be rid of mice. In general, from those little creatures that filled the warehouses and ate grain, hops, cheeses, and everything else. Yes, he still had his ghost cat, but without the shaman, he'd be gone sooner rather than later. And Maitre Jasper also got a desperate migraine from communicating with this spirit. Stepan would have said something like ‘ha-ha, weakling!’ but he was too immersed in the story to distract or interrupt Rowena.

So, the Magister looked at the request and decided to give it a go. It was a relatively harmless request, and not particularly burdensome, but an opportunity to show the Dantrells that he was doing his best to fix all the inconveniences caused by the accident. They, of course, did not pressurize the Magister, but he tried to bury the stupid tragedy as soon as possible. So to speak, this year nothing happened in the square in front of the magician's tower. In the end, Trabius had a couple of very talented adepts who were quite good at rituals, including the subtype of pest control. Although they must have been a little embarrassed when they saw Maître Jasper's ironic and anticipatory smile. They were lodged in the master's house and treated with respect, but only asked to stay for three days to ensure their rituals worked the first time. The very thought of the faggot and his faggot companion doubting their skills obviously did not make them feel any better, but they could not and did not formally say anything against it.

Three days later, they hadn't left.

In a week, too.

A week and a half later, Magister Miller became interested in their absence, as he was often assisted by this couple with small fetch-and-give activities. For him it was small, but for the adepts, it was extremely intense and demanding creative active practice. When he found out that these chumps were still failing, he sent their mentor, a very strong adept, and his former student, who was now in not too active opposition to the former mentor, having managed to buy out his training contract completely. The man was not a master, but a strong adept with a very deep, even for another master, erudition, specializing in rituals. Purely magically he was weaker than Eel, for example, but in terms of skills and the same erudition, he was certainly ahead of him. This individual came to Trabia's courtyard, where everyone was nearly pissing themselves from the solemnity of welcoming such an important guest. The guest looked at the cheerful Jasper, at the not-at-all-cheerful and almost tearing-their-hair students, and began to ask questions.

When he heard the answers, the man only shook his head, telling a couple of dullards, who had been born by mistake of gods with a gift, that he would show them how professionals worked and how to work in general. During one working day, he drew a multicomponent ritual circle with magic. By the way, obeying the master's order and not wanting another demonstrative reprimand, he took all the reagents from his own stocks. And performed the ritual, completely ridding the farmstead of mice and putting barriers around its edges, which would not allow new mice to get to the farmstead. That's it, the problem solved, and the fact that Trabius would go broke supporting the barrier and the structure of the ritual circle is no longer Maitre Gregory's problem. Maître Jasper understood this perfectly well but did not complain just smiled quite recklessly. Anyway, the honorable almost-master was ready to shut him up at once.

The next morning, looking at a new batch of mice killed by a kitty, the guest from the high tower suffered a slight tic in his right eye and no longer looked at his students as if they had been born only because their mother's birth control amulet hadn't worked. When he stayed another twenty-four hours, he didn't look at everyone like shit, climbing along the ritual, checking the entire farmyard with scanning charms. He'd even found a stash of illegal birth control amulets that couldn't be sold without paying a tax to the Temple of the Life Giver, which had been sitting in an inconspicuous stash for seven years. He couldn't find the place where it was coming from, so he yelled at his students and ordered them to dig up all the ground here but to give him a clear answer so that he wouldn't stand like a fool in front of the honorable Magister and not feel even more like a fool. And if they fail, they can forget about any increase in funding for personal practice for about a year to a lifetime.

The couple still hadn't returned, and they had clearly stopped looking at Maître Jasper like a right-wing skinhead radical on the LGBT, drinking with him in the evenings, at the same time going through his records and analyzing the results of the scans they'd collected themselves. It seemed that no one had drunkenly fucked them, but they felt themselves clearly raped at least mentally and psychologically. On the one hand, Stepan was even glad that it wasn't he who was such an idiot that he couldn't get rid of the mice. On the other hand, he wanted to understand, to know the answer to the question that had been bothering him for so long. And the answer was still missing, even though all the adepts of the tower had been to the courtyard, except for Magister Miller. To oppress the mice would be a definite damage to his reputation, as well as to the reputation of the whole tower. To be fair, that damage was already being done. Whereas before Trabius' trouble with rodents was just a minor story that nobody paid any attention to, and all those interested just thought he was being greedy to spend money on a normal mage, now.... oh, now there's nothing but talk of mice in Dantmark. It's not every year or every five years that there's such an occasion to talk and laugh at mages who have fallen into a puddle and still can't get out of it.

Stepan chuckled heartily at this story, taking note of it and mentally promising to find out what these guys would dig up. They, after all, due to their ability to work without hiding, could show a much deeper insight into the whole territory. And the shaman would watch and criticize them, in case they found that strange thing that teleported fresh mice to the courtyard and snutched his scanning spirits. He wondered if he should order him to send him a dozen dead and alive mice from the farmyard to try to trace their source with renewed vigor. Last time he hadn't searched through the memory of dead bodies at all, as there hadn't been enough time, and the part-to-piece search ritual hadn't shown much result. Now he had not only shamanism, but witchcraft as well, and a lot of free time on his hands. He rolled that thought around in his surprisingly empty head as Rowena, who had put her already cleaned panties back on, stroked his hair, sitting on top of him in a riding position and rubbing her lightly clad body against his bare skin. But, really, it was so much work, and he had a lot of important things on his mind, he'd rather think about never-seen-and-never-seen-before smoky peasant bitches with sweet, juicy, slippery country tits than do that nonsense.

Rowena eagerly echoed this thought, preventing him from soiling her dress by abruptly changing positions and pulling up her dress. Her crotch was again on the shaman's face, but now she brought pleasure in return, placing the cock on the verge of bursting in the tight ring of her lipsticked lips. The Earthman cum instantly, momentarily ceasing to think as Rowena takes in his seed gulp by gulp. He lazily drives his tongue in circles around her flower bud, releasing at least a couple of liters, feeling not even an orgasm, but some kind of paralyzing tenderness, a stream of constant and unchanging intensity of pleasure, with which his cock twitches and shoots another white ribbon directly into the throat of mechanically swallowing Rowena. But nothing lasts forever and neither does his unnatural eruption, he stops pouring out, stops feeling the dwindling reserve of the source, allowing his dolly to let go of his cock and straighten up again, not getting up, however, from the face of his submissive. At times like this, after such unnatural orgasms, he wanted to be in this position every time. He still didn't consider himself a fan of female domination, on the contrary, but there was something pleasant about the feeling of cool buttocks on his face, white thighs pressing against his cheeks, pussy sliding against his face.

Rowena left some time later. Shaman was left to recover and masturbate leisurely, not looking for a release, but just to calm his thoughts, fantasizing about the beautiful women he had met or would meet in the future. At the thought of Tahira going to town with her new tits, which he could quite easily smear with slippery oil and lick their sweet nipples, he smiles very contentedly. He remembers Truda and her daughter, Lashka, with nostalgia, regretting that he had been too stupid and didn't use the opportunity to have them for himself. Truda, after all, is literally a titty-smooth smutty peasant bitch with sweet juicy country tits. Lubricate her breasts with slippery oil and they'll be perfect. He even had the idea to find the pair and bring them back to Dantmark, she'd be as good a doll as Mommy Gelda. He'd see Shera again. He had not only forgiven her then but was even grateful for her lesson, which had been very useful. But now he wanted to bind Gaia's maid properly with compulsions, subdue her with spells, fuck her in all her holes, and give her to his sister instead of thanking her for her stupid lesson about trust. Those shamans, those two steppe whores. and a bunch of other seductive and pleasant women, who would surely be better off in his arms, brainwashed and tit-enhanced....

With these thoughts, he falls asleep without ever bringing himself to orgasm, just passing out.

He came to his senses sitting on a chair in his favorite room, Jaspera's spare office. There was a financier dressed in a peasant dress, and the dress had a particularly low collar so that it could be pulled down in a single movement, exposing pale, juicy, sweet, luscious, slippery, and lubricated, but alas not peasant, tits. Jaspera smiled sweetly at him, nodding and pointing to the small cosmetic table the servants had brought with a selection of oils on it, hinting at the joy that awaited him.

"Are you ready, chick?" The bloodsucker asks mockingly, like a grown-up aunt to a juvenile brat she's caught peeping at her changing clothes a couple of times, not looking like a deadly creature greedy for scarlet drops at all now. "I can see you're ready, though."

Stepan only nodded a few times, fixing his gaze on the peasant-clad Jaspera, dreaming of seeing her shaking her greased and slippery breasts in front of him, dressed in the outfit of a lecherous peasant. She'd still be a sophisticated and wise bloodsucker with years of experience and a mind the size of a house. But where could he find right now never seen and unknown to him cute peasant bitch with sweet juicy slippery village tits, where could he find such a woman? He had to make do with such a substitute, but it was, let's say, a very high-quality substitute of the highest class, not some Chinese bullshit! However, he would not say it out loud. Why offend Jaspera? She wanted to make him feel good and did this “good” with surprising regularity.

"Great, then get ready to stare at my big pale sides, my greased juicy luscious sweet slippery tits, Pann." Despite how mesmerising her words were, he still barely suppressed a laugh at the way she repeated her verbal activator, not even noticing its unnaturalness, not realising what a stupid loser she was, plastered and reliably brainwashed. "Watch and sink into a trance. Sleep for the slippery tits, sweetie, come for the peasant bitches, sleepy-eyed, watch and come for the slippery tits...."

He would have worried that she could hypnotise him like that, but the thought was ridiculous and ridiculous. Especially since he wasn't about to let himself be bewitched, perfectly capable of putting his mind into a submissive trance. So he concentrated a little, shifted his spirit properly, and then with a learnt mnemonic jerk he sank into a sweet, peasant titty drowsiness, just as Jaspera said that phrase. It was mere coincidence, however, and nothing more. Looking at the vampire's tits, which she had already exposed, he looked at them with wide-open and attentive eyes, pulling down her dress and spreading oil on them, he was sinking deeper and deeper into his much-needed and completely unsuspicious meditation.

Looking at the tits, the lubed juicy luscious sweet slippery slippery tits of a luscious bitch.

Ti-i-i-its....

* * *

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86785/581531

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP