Extra's Life: MILFs Won't Leave the Incubus Alone-Chapter 203: My Temptation

Seraphel’s eyes cracked open, the drug’s fog clinging like damp wool. He lay on a vast bed, priestly robes intact but twisted, body heavy and unresponsive. Beside him, Lucifer.

Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap!

As he kept Pounding someone...

She was bronze-skinned, raven-haired, legs splayed wide, cunt stretched around his thick cock as he thrust deep, trousers shoved down just enough.

Balls slapped her ass in wet rhythm; her folds glistened, clenching with each plunge. "Ahh... fuck, father oh father... deeper... your cock’s splitting me... yes, bless me...bless me with your holy cock.."

Seraphel groaned, trying to rise—arms weak, vision blurring—but collapsed back. Lucifer didn’t break stride, gold eyes fixed on him, hand pinning her thigh wider. "Watch, Inquisitor. This is your change. No more hollow hunts. Gone will be your inquisitor days....."

Her moans escalated: "Oh god... harder... hitting it... fuck, I’m cumming!" She seized, back arching, squirting in hot gushes that soaked the sheets, splattering serapheal’s robes. Lucifer ground through it, drawing sobs.

He quickened, then pulled out—fisting his slick shaft. Cum erupted in thick ropes across her belly, breasts, open mouth, and the bed, one spurt hitting Seraphel’s thigh. She milked him, moaning, "Mmm... all of it..."

Tucking himself away, Lucifer smiled. "And To seal it? I called the Saintess."

Seraphel’s mind snapped clear: the raid, the viscount—a lure for him and then...Her footsteps echoed from the hall, judgment inbound. Laughter followed—Lucifer’s, inevitable—as darkness tugged him under again.

The Saintess could not believe what she saw.

The smell hit her first — incense, sweat, and sin wrapped together like silk rotting in sunlight. Candles burned low, their wax spilling down the walls in serpentine trails, and through the dimness came the unmistakable sounds of laughter, sighs, and the quiet ruin of bodies in motion.

A whorehouse.

And in its inner chamber, on a bed of rumpled crimson sheets and crushed petals, lay Seraphel — the Inquisitor, the hammer of heresy, the man who once swore before the altar that his faith was purer than gold. Now he was bare to the waist, disoriented, eyes unfocused, skin slick with shame and confusion.

Beside him sat a woman of the house — unholy beauty draped in translucent silk, her expression tired or fulfilled. She ran a finger along his chest as if tracing scripture on desecrated parchment.

The Saintess stopped at the doorway, her breath frozen in her chest.

The sight struck her harder than any sword could. The man who had lectured her on purity. The man who once told her that temptation was a serpent coiled around the heart — that even a glance could damn the soul.

Now here he was, entangled in the serpent’s coils himself.

"By the Light..." she whispered, her hand trembling over her lips. The words were almost a sob.

Seraphel stirred, half-conscious. "S-Saintess?" His voice cracked, thick with sleep and something else — panic, maybe. He tried to rise, but the sheets tangled around him like chains. "Wait, it’s not— it’s not what it seems—"

She turned away sharply. "Silence."

Her voice carried the weight of command — divine authority forged by belief. The whore slipped off the bed and retreated, her bare feet whispering against the marble floor. For a moment, the Saintess almost pitied her — she, at least, did not pretend to be holy.

Seraphel fell to his knees, grasping for his robes, for any shred of dignity. His hands shook so badly he could barely hold the fabric.

"It was him," he said hoarsely. "Lucifer. The Prophet. He... he deceived me. Drugged me. You must believe me."

The Saintess’s expression hardened. "You dare speak his name now, in this filth?"

"It was him!" Seraphel’s voice broke. He crawled toward her, still half-dressed, desperation carving new lines across his face. "He set this trap! He—"

One of her knights stepped forward and struck him across the face with the back of a gauntleted hand. The sound cracked like thunder in the small room.

"Have some decency, man," the knight growled. "You stand before the Saintess — and still you crawl, unclean."

Blood welled at the corner of Seraphel’s mouth. He looked at it, dazed — as if the sight of his own blood were foreign to him. Then he looked up, eyes wide, pleading. "Please," he whispered. "I swear by the Flame, I am innocent. I serve the Light."

But the Saintess could not bring herself to look at him. Not truly. The shame that radiated from him was too heavy, too real. Her faith had always told her that sin revealed itself not only in deed but in presence — and Seraphel’s very aura was cracked, bleeding shadow through gold.

She turned her gaze heavenward. "As Saintess of the First Temple," she said, her tone measured and final, "I dismiss you from the Inquisition, pending judgment from the Holy Council."

His eyes widened. "No. No, please. You can’t—"

"I can," she said coldly. "And I must."

The knights pulled him back. His voice echoed down the hall as they dragged him out — a voice stripped of all its iron and fire, now only a man’s, small and breaking. "Saintess, listen to me! It was Lucifer! He—he twisted the truth! Don’t trust him!"

But the door shut behind him, sealing his words in wood and silence.

The Saintess stood there for a long time, alone, trembling. The air still carried the scent of cheap perfume and candle smoke, the ghosts of laughter and sin.

And beneath all of it, she could feel it — the slow, deliberate pulse of corruption that ran through the Church like rot through an apple.

This was not the first scandal she’d seen. She had heard whispers before — of priests with wandering hands, of bishops who bled gold from the poor. She had silenced them in faith’s name, believing one could not cleanse a body by cutting out the heart.

But now... now she saw the rot in the heart itself.

Outside, the night had turned to rain — soft, persistent, almost cleansing. The cobblestones shone like black glass beneath the lamplight.

And there, waiting in the drizzle with an umbrella of white silk and a sorrowful smile, stood Lucifer.

His hair darker than the night, his eyes a calm, steady blue — no trace of the divine fire that burned beneath his skin. He looked every inch the scholar, the pilgrim, the humble believer.

"Saintess," he said, bowing his head slightly. "I am so sorry you had to witness... that."

Her heart twisted. "You knew?"

He sighed, voice heavy with sorrow. "I suspected. The whispers reached even me — that an Inquisitor had fallen to temptation. I wanted to spare you such pain, but truth must be seen to be understood."

His eyes shone — not with triumph, but with what seemed like grief. Rain ran down his face, making it hard to tell if he wept.

"Like I told you...The Church is broken, my lady," he said softly. "I have seen it with my own eyes. The men who claim to guard the Light have long since snuffed it out. And now you have seen it too."

The Saintess could not speak. The image of Seraphel, his naked shame, his desperate pleas, burned behind her eyes.

"You must not blame yourself," Lucifer said, stepping closer. "Faith without truth is blindness. You have done what others feared — you looked upon the sickness and did not turn away."

He hesitated, voice trembling just enough to feel real. "I almost wish you hadn’t. For once one sees corruption, one cannot unsee it. The Light changes color forever."

She reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. The rain had soaked through his cloak — beneath her fingers, his skin was cold. "You speak as though it pains you."

"It does," he said simply. "I wish the Church were pure. I wish the priests were holy. I wish the God we both serve had not been buried beneath coin and command. But wishing is not faith."

Her breath hitched. "Then what is?"

He met her gaze. "Faith is will. The courage to see truth and still walk toward it."

Something in her — some last tether of obedience — snapped. Tears gathered in her eyes, but they did not fall. "Then let me walk with you," she said. "If you speak truth, if you walk in the path of the Light uncorrupted, then I would follow you. Not as a Saintess bound by hierarchy, but as a believer seeking redemption."

Lucifer’s expression softened. "You would risk everything for that?"

"The Church has already risked everything and lost it," she whispered. "Perhaps faith must burn before it can rise again."

For a moment, he said nothing. Only the sound of rain filled the silence, drumming against the earth like a thousand tiny prayers.

Then Lucifer smiled — a quiet, almost tender smile. "Then walk with me, Saintess," he said. "And together, we shall make the heavens answer for their silence."

She nodded, trembling. Somewhere behind them, thunder rolled — faint but deep, like a god stirring in uneasy sleep.

Inside the whorehouse, the air had cooled. The candles guttered low. Seraphel woke on the floor, half-covered by a blanket, his head spinning, his mouth dry as ash. The knights were gone. The Saintess was gone.

And on the table beside him lay a single black feather.

He didn’t know how it had come there — but when he touched it, a spark ran up his arm, freezing his breath in his chest. A whisper echoed in his skull, faint as smoke.

Faith is a chain. Break it, and see what you’ve become.

He lurched back, clutching his temples. "No," he gasped. "No—"

But there was no one to hear him.

Outside, Lucifer and the Saintess walked together beneath the rain, their silhouettes framed by lanternlight — a prophet and a saintess, bound by faith and lies, walking toward the same storm.

And above them, the sky trembled — not with thunder, but with something older, watching, waiting.

The Light, perhaps.

Or something that remembered being Light, long ago.

The Saintess looked back once, to where the whorehouse lights flickered like dying stars. "He was a man of faith," she murmured. "And now he’s lost."

Lucifer followed her gaze. "Faith does not save, Saintess," he said quietly. "It chooses whom to consume...."

’like I will consume you soon enough...’ he thought, hiding his smile.