"She just teleported away," he muttered. His hand found his cock. Squeezed. The cum that remained on the shaft — Mira's anal residue — was smeared under his fingers. He looked at the mirror. At the mess. At the three maids who were standing frozen, their faces crimson, their hands in places they shouldn't be.
He turned toward Helena.
The nanny stood by the bed. Her brown eyes were enormous. Her hands were on her belly — protective, instinctive, the maternal shield. Her enormous, milk-swollen tits heaved with ragged breathing. Her brown bun was half-unraveled, strands falling across her face. Her cheeks were pink. Her lips were parted. She had watched the entire thing. Watched Mira — her fellow wife, her friend, the woman she had helped shave — get turned from a commanding presence into a screaming, anal-destroyed, mirror-plastered bitch.
"Wait — husband," Helena said. Her voice was high. Breathless. "There are maids here—"
Viktor chuckled.
He pounced.
