PAH! PAH! PAH!

"AAANGHH~!! YOUNG MASTER~!! HNGH~!! PLEASE~!!"

The soap foam had built.

Around the point where his cock entered Marta — the lather working itself into a thick, white froth that coated the base of his shaft and her entrance simultaneously, producing a wet, obscene sound on every thrust that was somehow more indecent than the thrusting itself.

Viktor looked down at it.

His mouth curved.

He slammed once more — deliberate, deep, driving the full length through the foam and into the soft, vice-tight grip of a woman whose body had apparently been ’lying’ about having no sensations for a decade — and watched the foam compress and spread at the impact.

Marta made a sound directly into the stone wall.

It was not a professional sound.

Her hands were flat against the stone, her forehead pressed between them, and she was doing the specific, private, mortified thing that a woman does when her body is producing reactions she has not authorized and she cannot stop them and there is an audience.

One hand came up.

Covered her face.

Her shoulders shook.

Not from crying, precisely. From the specific, impossible confluence of sensation and humiliation and the forty years of professional dignity that were currently being systematically processed by a nine-inch cock and a bar of soap.

A sound came from behind her hand.

Half sob. Half something else entirely.

Viktor watched the foam.

Watched her hips. The soft, wrinkled thickness of her backside trembling with every impact, the jiggles running outward from the point of contact in slow waves, her skin flushed from the hot water and the exertion in a way that her professional exterior had never once suggested was possible.

His cock was clean.

Thoroughly.

He pulled out.

Marta’s knees buckled.

She caught herself on the tub wall. Stood with her back to the room, both hands pressed flat against the stone, breathing in the specific, careful rhythm of someone reassembling their professional self from the components.

Her pussy — agape. The wrinkled, soft ring of her entrance stretched and twitching, the soap foam still white against the dark crease of her thighs, the visible gap of her a specific kind of evidence that the room’s other occupants could see clearly from their position in the water.

Eliantra looked at it.

For approximately three seconds longer than she intended to.

At the gap. At the twitching. At the specific, undeniable evidence of what sixty-three-year-old Marta had just been ’thoroughly introduced to.’

She pressed her lips together.

’Why,’ she thought, with genuine helplessness, ’why older women? He could have — there are young, beautiful — why does he keep—’

She didn’t finish that thought.

Viktor turned toward Rihana.

"Come here."

Rihana, already moving — the water swirling around her thick hips, her breasts floating at the surface, her expression carrying the warm, patient readiness of someone who has been ’waiting’ for this specific invitation for the past ten minutes.

She crossed to him.

Her hands found his chest.

His cock, in her grip, was already there — heavy, still lathered with soap, slick — and she stroked once, twice, the motion efficient and certain, her fingers knowing the geography of it from twelve hours of comprehensive study.

He looked at her.

His jaw set.

"Actually—"

He let go.

Stepped back.

And came.

Not on Rihana.

Into the water.

Three thick, heavy ropes — arc after arc of glowing-purple seed launching from his cock in long, undirected streams and landing across the bathwater’s surface, dispersing in slow, cloudy tendrils that spread outward from the point of impact like something blooming.

The water they were all sitting in.

The water up to Eliantra’s collarbone.

The water that Eliantra was ’inside.’

The first rope landed two feet from her.

The second closer.

The third — the third hit the water directly beside her hip with a flat, warm splash that she ’felt’ against her skin through the fabric of her nightgown.

Eliantra looked at the water.

At the cloudy, dispersing evidence of him spreading slowly through it.

She looked up.

"Did you—" Her voice. "Did you just—"

He was already at ease. His cock settling. The specific, satisfied posture of a man who has made a decision and has no regrets about it.

"What," he said.

"You just—" She gestured at the water. At the dispersing, undeniable evidence of him now present in every cubic inch of the bath they shared. "INTO THE WATER—"

"It’ll rinse."

"That is NOT—"

"Clean," he added.

"VIKTOR."

He shrugged.

One shoulder. The complete, unbothered shrug of a man who finds this reaction somewhat theatrical.

Eliantra’s mouth opened.

Closed.

She looked at the water.

At herself, submerged in it to the chest, her wet nightgown thoroughly soaked and probably — she looked down — ’yes,’ definitely carrying the warmth of the dispersed seed against her skin now, the soft, faintly glowing warmth that she was choosing not to think about and which her body was receiving with an interest she was actively supervising.

She looked at Marta.

Marta had turned around.

The old woman stood at the tub edge, her skirt retrieved from the water and somehow back around her waist, her panty pulled up over the gap of her entrance with the urgent dignity of a woman reassembling her minimum. Her saggy breasts still exposed above the bunched fabric, the nipples still peaked from the steam.

She was looking at Viktor’s cock.

At the last slow pulse of it — the thick, dark head still glistening, the final lazy trail of seed hanging from the tip before dropping into the water.

Her expression: the expression of a woman who has just had a large portion of her professional worldview revised and is doing the filing.

He looked at her.

"Thanks for your service," he said.

Marta’s chin came up.

The dignity of forty years. Even now.

"Indeed." Her voice. Steady. Professional. Still somehow, improbably, the voice of a head of household.

"It is my duty."

Viktor smiled.

Warm. Genuine. The specific, fond smile of a man who genuinely appreciates a woman who commits to a position.

"Then I’ll be expecting you tonight." He looked at her. "On the bed. Service continues."