Arthur’s voice cut through the cooling air of the subterranean forest.
"Show yourself."
A soft scuff of cloth against bark answered him. Margaret stepped out from behind a stand of pale trunks, hands visible, eyes lowered for a moment before she met his. The last of the day’s light filtered through the canopy in thin gold shafts, turning the edges of her maid dress the colour of old honey.
He stared at her, the residual emerald glow of Concentrated Mana still fading from his fingertips. The violet pressure of the curse sat quiet for the moment, held back by the five-minute limit he had forced himself to respect.
"Margaret."
"I didn’t mean to startle you, Sir." Her voice was steady, though a faint colour rose along her cheekbones. "I followed the path when I heard the trees shift. I thought... you might need someone nearby."
They walked without speaking until the trees thinned and the personal lake opened before them. Water lay still under the descending sun, surface broken only by slow ripples that caught the light and threw it back in fractured bronze. Arthur stopped at the bank. The air smelled of wet stone and crushed leaves.
"The scenery is wonderful," he said. "But you shouldn’t be here alone. Do you have any complaint regarding me?"
Margaret shook her head once.
"No complaint."
He studied her face. The question that had lived in him since the market rose again.
"Have you forgiven me? For what the previous owner of this body did?"
She was quiet for several breaths. A leaf drifted past them and settled on the water.
"I forgave you the day you stepped between me and them," she said. "What he did still mattered. It left marks. But you are not him. You pulled me out. You gave me a place, a wage, the right to speak when I was angry. That is what I choose to remember."
Arthur looked away toward the far shore. The honesty in her voice made the violet under his skin stir, restless.
Margaret continued, softer.
"My parents both held mana. Strong, from what little I was told. I never could reach mine. Something feels blocked, or missing. I don’t know which. At night I hear you. The sounds you make when the thing inside you turns. I thought... maybe something is wrong with you the same way something is wrong with me."
He did not explain the curse. The words stayed locked behind his teeth. Instead he asked, "Why offer help, then?"
"Because watching you struggle alone feels worse." She gestured toward the water. "Try concentrating on the current. The way the light breaks. Then the leaves when they fall. It steadies the mind. I used to do it when the emptiness inside me grew too loud."
He fixed his gaze on the water. Slow movement. Light fracturing and reforming. His emerald mana answered in a thin, even pulse. For a short span the violet receded, becoming background pressure rather than immediate demand. The improvement was real, if small. He drew a deeper breath and felt the combined state hold without the usual sharp cost.
Margaret’s voice reached him, quiet encouragement without praise.
"Bring it back when it slips. Don’t force it."
He did. The second attempt lasted longer. The third settled into a usable rhythm. The curse remained present, but it no longer clawed at the edges of every thought.
Sunset deepened. Orange slid toward red, then toward the first violet of evening. The temperature dropped. Arthur’s heartbeat quickened without warning. The emerald rhythm faltered. Violet pressure rose against it, thicker, hotter, less willing to be contained. His hands tightened on his knees. Focus frayed.
Margaret noticed the change in his breathing.
"Should we stop?"
He shook his head once, jaw locked. The five-minute limit he had set earlier already felt distant. The curse pressed harder with every passing minute of failing light.
His hands moved before he could stop them.
He caught her arms from behind and pulled her back against his chest. The full length of his body pressed to hers. She could feel the hard, insistent shape of him against the small of her back.
Margaret stiffened.
"Master... what?"
Arthur’s mouth was close to her ear. His breath was hot. His voice came rough, strained.
"Sorry, Margaret. You have to bear this curse with me. I can’t think of anything else right now. Help me console it. Otherwise I might go and do this to someone I don’t want."
She turned her head enough to see his face. Whatever she found there—helplessness, hunger, the raw edge of the thing that lived in him—made her expression change. The tension left her shoulders.
She remembered the market. The hands that had reached for her. The nights afterward when the hunger inside her own body had clawed and found no relief. He had taken her into the house, given her a room, a wage, the right to speak sharply, to prank, to curse him when she was angry, and he had listened. He had treated her as something closer to family than servant.
Margaret turned fully in his arms and wrapped her own around him. Her breasts pressed soft and full against his chest. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart.
"I have been yours since the moment you rescued me," she said against his shirt. "I will serve you in every way you need."
Moonlight began to rise over the trees, pale and clean.
Arthur kissed her.
The kiss was hard, open, hungry. His tongue pushed into her mouth and she met it with a soft moan that vibrated against his lips. Her hands fisted in the back of his shirt, pulling him closer. A thin trail of wetness already slipped down the inner side of one thigh; he felt the heat of it when her legs pressed closer to his. Read this novel at novelping . com for the best experience.
He broke the kiss only long enough to drop to one knee on the grass. His hands slid up the outside of her legs, pushing the skirt of the maid dress higher, higher, until the fabric bunched at her waist. The scent of her arousal reached him—warm, slightly sweet, unmistakable. He leaned in and licked the clear line of wetness from mid-thigh upward, slow, tasting salt and her.
His tongue traced the soft inner skin, following the damp path all the way to the edge of her undergarments. Margaret’s fingers tightened in his hair.
A small, broken sound left her throat.
He stood again.
The dress was damp with the sweat of her walk and the new heat rising between them. He ran his tongue from the hollow of her throat down the upper slope of one breast, licking the salt from her skin in long, deliberate strokes. Then he caught the edge of the fabric in his teeth and tore.
Buttons scattered into the grass. The front of the dress fell open. Her breasts spilled free—full, heavy, nipples already tight from the cool air and the heat of his mouth. He closed his lips around one and sucked deeply, tongue circling the peak, then flicking, then sucking again while his hand squeezed the other, thumb rubbing slow circles over the stiff nipple.
Margaret’s moan climbed higher.
Her hand found the hard length of him through his trousers and stroked, spreading the wetness that had already soaked the cloth at the tip. She gripped him through the fabric, squeezing, feeling the thick pulse of him against her palm.
Arthur pushed the ruined dress and the thin undergarments down her hips until they pooled at her feet. She stepped out of them. Naked now under the rising moonlight: milky breasts glistening with sweat, soft stomach, wide hips, the pink of her pussy already shining and dripping a slow line of juice down both thighs.
He stared for one full breath, throat working.
Then he pulled her behind the nearest stand of trees.
Clothes came off him in rough, impatient motions. When they stood bare against each other his cock slid along the wet seam of her pussy, the head catching and leaving a slick trail across her lower stomach.
They kissed again, deeper, teeth and tongue and shared breath. His hands moved everywhere—under the weight of her breasts, cupping and lifting them, thumbs brushing the nipples; down the curve of her waist; over the full cheeks of her ass, spreading them so the night air touched the soaked folds between.
He squeezed the soft flesh, pulling her harder against his cock so the thick shaft rubbed up and down between her lips without entering.
He dropped to his knees a second time.
Hands gripping her ass, he pulled her forward and pressed his mouth to her. The scent was stronger here, fresh and female. His tongue parted the lips and licked from her entrance up to the swollen clit in long, firm strokes.
He thrust the tongue deeper, curling it against the inner walls, drinking every drop he could reach. He licked in slow circles around the sensitive bud, then sucked it gently between his lips while two fingers slid inside her, curling upward.
Margaret’s voice broke above him.
"Master... fuck me, I’m so wet... please... Arthurrr... Make me Pregnant... Fill me up with your Seeds... Arthurrrr... Master... I’m coming... Arthur..."