Helena said. Her voice was thick. Sleepy. The 'I-just-woke-up-and-you-are-carrying-a-demoness-on-your-cock' voice of a woman who had been through too much to be truly surprised.
Viktor looked at her. At his first wife. At the nanny. At the woman whose pregnant belly was round and full, whose brown hair was a mess, whose brown eyes were tired but present.
"Can you help me a bit, Helena?" he asked. The tone was casual. The 'while-you're-up' tone of a man asking for a hand with groceries.
Helena blinked. Looked at the demoness. Looked at the cock — the twelve inches, buried in the demon cunt, the shaft visible between the impaled woman's spread thighs. Looked at Viktor's face. At the calm, amused expression.
She snapped her finger.
