Veronica's Humiliating Striptease and the Sow Contract
When it was time for her to step outside, "Th-this is..."
"Why? Unexpected?"
She probably never dreamed I'd release her without lifting a finger. Until moments ago, Veronica had been nothing but provocative in her words and attitude toward me, but now fluster was plain on her face. Right there, her scheme to seize the initiative from me had shattered from the start. How would she play this? Would she tough it out to the bitter end for our future clashes, or abandon the preemptive strike and think ahead? Well, ditching the opener meant a total overhaul of her plan to make me cling to her. Whether me or Veronica, the one who begged first, the one who bent to demands first—that side might snag the edge in the long game, depending on who wielded it.
"You planning a staring contest with me right here, right now?"
"You bastard...!!"
That only worked on equal footing. Future aside, right now in this underground prison, our positions were human versus collared beast. Commanding a beast to sheath its fangs? Pure stupidity.
"I don't give a shit. Leave you rotting here and pound your daughter's cunt instead? Works for me."
"Kh!"
Even a beast bends when its cub's on the line. Rip out the teeth, clip the claws—no problem.
"Oh, forgot to mention: I've got this curse—don't cum ten times a day, I drop dead. Want your girl alive? Play nice."
"You think I'd swallow that lie?"
"Total bullshit, yeah. Least twenty loads a day, minimum."
Of course, no such curse existed, but after watching Sylvia crumble, Veronica had to game out every wild claim from my lips.
Don't give her idle time to scheme. Humans could hatch Demon King-tier plots on a whim. So pile on the dilemmas. Steal her bandwidth for plotting escapes from orc claws with Sylvia—strategies, odds, futures.
"So? Stripping or not? Spit it out, fuck—my balls are gonna burst, boo-hoo!"
Under my nonstop blitz, Veronica—with no countermove ready—glared daggers.
And "Filthy trash..."
Jackpot. She extended her battle-calloused hand, slowly peeling off her rags one filthy piece at a time...
"Hold up. If you're stripping, make it slow. Piece by piece."
"How much more must you mock me...!"
"Mad? Then... you know the drill?"
"Y-you whore...!!!"
Seeming ready to erupt, but fretting for Sylvia, Veronica swallowed her fury. Teeth grinding in shame, she undid her threadbare blouse buttons from the top—slow, deliberate.
"Don't think you'll die easy, you cur...!"
"Yeah, yeah—hurry it up! Layer by layer! Like a maid devoutly slipping off her master's nightclothes. Eyes down, no contact. This is why orcs rule!
With a soft rustle, the blouse (ex-blouse) slid free. Beneath, her black bra gleamed against silver hair, parting like a morning curtain in the breeze.
"Ohhh."
I marveled; she squeezed her eyes shut, fingers to the hook—
"Wait! Freeze!"
"What now? Backing out? Some leader you are."
"Nah—bra and panties last."
"..."
Everything else first—underwear separate! Never all at once; that's rule one.
Veronica flicked a glance at my raging hard-on, whipped away, shucked her shredded pants.
Black bra up top; below, black panties so skimpy her silver bush spiked out. But those abs under massive tits? Killer. Bigger rack than mom-maker Sylvia already got me throbbing, but that cinched waist scarred big and small? Perfection.
Not just abs. Arms, torso—face aside, sword scars galore. On Sylvia, flaws; on Veronica's sharp, rugged allure? Accents, beauty carved in flesh. Sylvia: blank-canvas painting. Veronica: master's sculpture.
"Nngh...!"
She was my sow's dam, sure—but daydreaming defilement of "someone else's mom"? Scumbag move. Still: Mom, reborn worth it!
Snorting hot, I commanded: "Now ease that bra down. Slow—no yanking."
"..."
"Bra off, hands cupping tits? National law, yeah?"
Words just stoked my fire; lips pursed tight, she reached back, unhooked.
Left arm shields breasts; right tugs panties down. From slim waist, hand snags black cloth at hips, slides slow—as leg lifts—
"Turn around for it."
"...One strip, endless demands."
Patience snapped; she bitched, spun—hair veiling like mist.
Bends slight, leg up: "Burn this in—you'll be too busy roasting in hellfire soon."
"Cheers."
Postpartum married pussy—no visitors since Sylvia's sire. Birth pussy. Virgin anus. Plump ass jiggles inches away; nose-bury urge screams, but endure. Admire flesh, don't drown in it. Patience bitter; nectar sweet.
Superhuman restraint on swaying cheeks; seconds tick. Arms over tits, panties dangling from fingers—she drops them.
"Hands behind."
Obedient; I savored her form, endured more, drew a paper.
"That?"
"This? Contract. You 'n' me."
"Contract?"
Monster whipping out docs? Shock hit; eyes on me.
"Yup. Monsters spit oaths true—we don't fib much. But humans? Sneakier. Gotta paper it. 'Sucker gets burned'—ain't me."
"Point?"
"Plenty! Die by cheap shot? Record for heirs. Insurance."
"You have my daughter..."
"So—you handle my dick-duty instead! Contract for that."
"..."
Speechless. Worked for her too.
"No guarantee it's no binding curse, will-breaker? Ain't standard."
"Oho, paranoid? Fair. But handy mind-fucks? Rare—body binds ok, soul? Life-cost. Minor proof-spell here, no chants."
Example: Sylvia's womb tattoo—succubus curse, now shape-only.
Sylvia line burned it out; mom curse-free.
"Legit. Just..."
"Just?"
"Refuse my word/order? Mild body penalty."
"Knew it—no deal—"
"Duh! Sex-slave trainer standard! Obey perfect? Zero penalty!"
Serious face; long blink, chin-jut: spill terms.
1. Party B (Veronica) shall handle Party A's (Orc) sexual relief and cock service via her body, satisfying his lust in place of her daughter.
2. Party A shall not forcibly rape or coerce Party B's daughter while contract active. Exception: if daughter approaches willingly.
3. Party B cannot use force on Party A; no physical/mental harm or restraint permitted.
4. Party A must provide semen at least ten times daily to Party B or her daughter. No masturbation collection.
5. Party B must obey Party A's commands. Party A rewards obedience with semen via B's body. B may refuse life-endangering orders (suicide, murder). Other refusals incur penalties borne solely by B.
6. Party B shall not disclose contract or Party A info to others; no direct speech/documents. Violations: penalties on B.
Party A: (Seal) | Party B: (Seal)
"That's it."
"Absurd bullshit...!"
"What's absurd? Simple. Conceded plenty."
"..."
"Pissed? Ditch it—off to fuck Sylvia..."
"I'll do it! Just—leave that child alone..."
See why no time? Contract: no forcing Sylvia; she milks me; no harming me. Could cage 'n' drain me, sure—but no harm clause. I yield; she obeys. She secrets me; I seed sans force. Bargain.
Explained; inked finger, stamped A.
"Squat nice 'n' easy."
"Why? That ink—where?!"
Crotch-dangled ink; axe-glare scream—but cool as ice.
"Hm? Dick-duty for Sylvia's sake—elegant stamp? You?"
Pussy-print, bitch. Head droops shame-deep.
"F-fine..."
Hand on nape, squats—pussy-stamps ink; "Special service—signature rub~"
Grinds B-spot pussy-style.
"Smart. Can't lose Sylvia."
"Shut... shut up..."
My seal; below, her pussy-print. Glow starts—
"Wh-what! This shit!"
"Told ya: doc for me, body-proof for you. Crude mark—zero extras."
Womb tattoo blooms lower abs; panic-trick-fear fades—no weirdness. Grumpy at branding? Tough.
"Whew! Drama over~"
"..."
First step: grand ambition. Operation Toad Brothel launches.
'North? Subsurface riches? Take 'em—dig! North's all yours. I'll claim your old digs; build anew up there!'
"Veronica—order."