Viktor’s thumb moved across her nipple.

Milk. Through the fabric — the faint, immediate wet of it, the small, dark bloom of moisture at the fabric’s surface where her body was making its opinions known.

She flinched.

"Hn~— please—"

Viktor looked at Aaron.

"Mm?"

Aaron was looking at his own cock again.

The specific, mounting, horrified fury of a man whose identity is substantially built on a specific physical function and who is watching that function fail in real time while another man gropes a woman in his own establishment.

"Kill him," he said.

Two guards.

The movement was immediate — the trained, purposeful motion of men who have done violence before and are not conflicted about it.

Viktor didn’t move.

They moved.

Then they stopped.

Not by choice. The aura blade — the same atomic-level precision that had compressed compounds from a dying herb — moved through them in the specific, comprehensive, entirely non-theatrical way that absolute ability tends to work.

They came apart.

The fine red mist of it hung in the air for approximately one second.

Settled.

The women on the platforms stared.

Aaron stared.

The three women behind his sofa had, as a unit, pressed themselves back against the wall.

The silence of a room that has just been shown something it had no category for.

Viktor took the seat across from Aaron.

Pulled Helviana down with him.

Her body landing on his lap — the full, warm, comprehensive landing of a woman who is being sat on a cock in a room full of strangers and whose face has gone directly to the color of something that has given up — her pussy finding his cock through the thin fabric of her skirt with the specific, immediate, ’inevitable’ alignment of two things that have spent the night becoming very familiar.

He pushed up.

The cock entering her from below — through the skirt, the displaced fabric, the wet, practiced, well-used entrance of her — in the specific, quiet, ’completely-in-public’ manner of a man who has decided this is where he’s sitting and what he’s doing and the room’s opinions are noted.

Her eyes widened.

"Wh— Sir Viktor—"

"Still," he said.

Into her ear. Quiet.

The cock seated inside her, his hands at her waist, her dress arranged over both of them — the specific, covered, technically-appropriate surface appearance of a man with a woman on his lap that was doing nothing to change what was actually happening.

He looked at Aaron.

"You have a product," he said, conversationally. "Something that makes women horny."

Aaron stared at him.

At the woman on his lap.

At the outline of Viktor’s hand under her bodice fabric, the slow movement of his thumb against the curve of her breast.

"So what," Aaron said. His voice was not entirely steady.

"Nothing," Viktor said. "I was just thinking."

He shifted his hips.

Helviana’s head tipped forward.

"Hn~—"

"What would you do," Viktor said, "if you became permanently impotent?"

Aaron looked at his own lap.

At the specific, complete, absolute non-response that was happening there.

"Kill him," he said.

Automatic. The reflex of a man whose remaining guard contingent had just been watching their colleagues become mist and was visibly reconsidering.

No one moved.

"Right," Viktor said.

His hand under Helviana’s bodice found her nipple.

Twisted.

The milk came immediately — the warm, wet bloom of it through the fabric, the small, audible gasp from her, the specific, overwhelmed "Hn~— please—" of a woman who is trying very hard to be dignified about a situation that has completely bypassed dignity.

Viktor looked at the white powder on the table.

The neat arrangement of it. The pipe beside it. The specific, gray-market chemistry of a product that had been building the district’s secondary revenue for years.

He lifted his foot.

Kicked.

The powder scattered. The bowl it was in hitting the floor, the contents dispersing across the stone in a white, spreading wave.

"The bastards," he said. Simply. To the room.

He turned back to Aaron.

And then he leaned forward.

Found Helviana’s face.

And kissed her.

The full, deep, completely-in-front-of-everyone kiss — his hand at the back of her head, his mouth on hers, her eyes wide for approximately one second and then rolling as the kiss reached the specific, comprehensive depth of a man who doesn’t do anything partially.

She made a sound into his mouth.

"Mmnh~—"

His hips moved.

Just once. The slow, deep, seated grind of his cock inside her — her pussy clenching around him in the involuntary, full-body response that her body had been performing since the previous night — the milk from her nipple running down the inside of her bodice.

He broke the kiss.

Looked at Aaron.

"Why would you need a drug," he said, "to make a woman horny?"

His thumb. Against her nipple.

The squeeze.

The milk soaking through her dress front in a visible, warm, spreading stain.

"Hn~— aaahh~—" She bit his shoulder.

He chuckled.

"Call every illegal boss in this city," he said. "I want a meeting."

The room was silent.

Aaron looked at the mist where his guards had been.

At the woman on Viktor’s lap, whose dress was wet at the chest, whose face was pressed against Viktor’s shoulder, whose hips were doing the small, involuntary rolls of a woman who has been broken in and cannot entirely stop.

At his own lap.

At Viktor.

"...Fine."

He stood.

Walked to the door.

Opened it.

Left.

Viktor looked at the women on the platforms.

They were looking at him.

With the specific, collective, entirely-non-professional interest of a room full of women whose bodies had been redirected.

Several of them had their hands between their thighs.

Quietly.

He looked at Helviana.

At the milk-wet front of her dress. At her face, pressed against his shoulder, the tears still at the corners of her eyes, the specific, exhausted, overwhelmed expression of a woman who has been used as a demonstration piece in a criminal’s lounge at nine in the morning.

His hand found her breast again.

Lifted. Squeezed.

The milk ran.

She made the sound.

"Mn~—"

"Good girl," he said.

Quietly. Not for the room. For her.

Her pussy clenched him.

Involuntary.

"Thank you," he said. Even quieter. "For acting as my dick-kill machine."

She made a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh and ended in "Mmmmnnghhh~!!" because his hips had moved again.

PAAAH!