Chapter 667: Mental Breakdown

"Cassius! W-Why are you so good at this!♡~"

Carmela’s voice came out in broken, breathless pieces, barely above a whisper.

"Why do you lick my pussy so good?! Oh God—your tongue—your tongue is amazing!♡~"

"It’s going so deep inside me!♡~ Oh no—no, don’t stop. Please don’t stop!♡~"

"Keep—please keep licking me!♡~"

"Oh yes—that bean—my clit—right there! Make me cum—make me cum—ahhh!♡~"

The woman making those shameless, lewd pleas was barely recognizable as Carmela anymore.

She lay sprawled across the bed like something broken open and remade in fire.

Her eyes rolled back until only the whites showed, face drenched in sweat that made her hair cling to her cheeks and throat.

Lips parted wide in a constant, trembling O of ecstasy and every few seconds her entire body seized—back arching off the mattress in violent, involuntary convulsions that lifted her breasts high before slamming her down again.

Her nipples also stood painfully erect, flushed dark and glistening, quivering with each ragged breath.

And between her spread thighs—her pussy was a complete wreck. Swollen, glossy, continuously leaking.

Every time Cassius’s tongue plunged deep or curled against her clit she squirted again—clear arcs of liquid splashing across his face, his chest, the sheets.

She’d already come so many times the mattress beneath her hips was soaked through.

Because of this Cassius’s face and hair were drenched.

Strands stuck to his forehead; rivulets of her release ran down his jaw and throat.

Yet he never paused. Never flinched.

Only smiled before diving back in, tongue spearing deep, lips sealing around her clit, sucking hard until her hips bucked and another broken scream tore from her throat.

And while they lost themselves in a private symphony of wet sounds and shattered moans, Joy sat rigidly on the far edge of the same large bed, her back turned to the scene.

She was currently the picture of misery.

Her face was pale, bloodshot eyes staring blankly at the opposite wall, dark circles etched beneath them.

One hand clutched the side of her head as if trying to contain a skull-splitting migraine; the other was fisted so tightly in the blanket her knuckles were trembling.

She looked, in a word, traumatized.

It was the hollow-eyed, soul-weary expression of someone who had accidentally walked in on their parents in the throes of passion and could never unsee it.

Of course, at first Joy had told herself it would be quick.

Carmela was proud, dignified. Surely she would never let this drag on with witnesses in the room.

Surely she’d finish fast, bite her tongue, keep some shred of composure.

Joy had been wrong.

Horribly, catastrophically wrong.

Cassius had started slow, almost romantic.

Gentle laps, teasing flicks, soft kisses against her folds that made Carmela whimper and tremble but still hold herself together.

Joy could almost pretend it wasn’t happening if she stared hard enough at the wall and repeated holy litanies in her head.

But then his pace changed.

He spread her wider with strong thumbs.

Plunged his tongue deep—fucking her with it—curling, thrusting, tasting every inch inside while his nose ground against her clit.

He sucked her folds into his mouth.

Scraped his teeth lightly over her swollen pearl.

Devoured her like a starving man presented with his last meal.

He even spent agonizing minutes focused solely on her clitoris, sucking, flicking, even grazing it gently with his teeth.

The torment broke Carmela completely.

The dignified protests—

"Please, Cassius, not there...you can’t lick me there, it’s too dirty!"

—morphed into shameless, begging encouragement.

"Yes! Yes, go on, deeper! Lick me, Cassius, lick me!♡~"

"J-Just what is wrong with your tongue? I want it deep inside my pussy all day...I want you to clean out all the dirty stuff, oh GOD!♡~"

She was actively grinding against his face now, shoving his head deeper, her earlier modesty incinerated in the furnace of her lust.

But ut wasn’t just the blood-induced heat; it was his skill.

A skill so devastating it could make a woman who would smile through having her nails pulled out scream and sob and beg for more.

She came again and again, drenching him, the bed, herself, but the hunger seemed insatiable.

And Cassius, the ever-obliging servant to her need, continued without pause.

But for Joy, each raw, throaty cry was a dagger to the heart.

This was the woman whose name made nobles across the continent tremble.

The merciless, brutal hunter she had idolized since childhood, whose very existence had validated Joy’s own path of righteous vengeance.

Meeting her had been a dream fulfilled.

Now, that dream was a pile of ash.

The idol was shattered, revealed to be just flesh and desperate need, broken down into a mewling, squirming animal by a man’s talented mouth. Cassius had done this.

He had systematically dismantled the legend and left this...this creature in its place.

Joy felt herself breaking alongside her.

The constant defeats since her return—the failed mission, the moral compromises, the gnawing doubts about her faith, and now this ultimate violation of her ideals—pressed down on her like a physical weight.

She used to watch prisoners break under torture and feel a cold disdain for their weakness.

She believed her resolve was unshakable.

Now, she understood.

This was her torture.

Not physical pain, but the systematic destruction of everything she believed in, played out in lewd surround-sound behind her.

She wasn’t stronger. She was just as mortal, just as fragile.

The urge to curl into a ball, to scream, to genuinely weep, was a tidal wave threatening to drown her.

But just as Joy thought the depths of her humiliation had been reached, the universe proved her wrong.

It could always get worse.

"I-I’m coming, Cassius! I’m coming, coming, coming!"

Carmela’s scream was a raw declaration, utterly devoid of restraint.

Hearing this, Cassius pulled back slightly, anticipating the deluge.

He knew better than to get a direct splash in the face if he could help it and in response, he opened his mouth, a grin on his lips, ready to catch and drink what he could.

But in her climax—Carmela’s body convulsed with unpredictable violence.

Her back arched not just upward, but twisted.

Instead of facing the ceiling, her hips rolled, angling her glistening, spasming pussy directly toward where Joy sat hunched on the far side of the bed.

Cassius’s eyes widened in pure horror.

He lunged—hands shooting out to push her hips down—but he was too late.

"I’m coming—it’s coming out—!"

A massive, pressurized gush erupted.

"Schlurp!♡~ Splish!♡~ Splat!♡~ Squish!♡~"

The clear, glistening flood arced through the air in a perfect, shimmering parabola.

And landed.

Directly across Joy’s back.

The impact was unmistakable—warm, wet, soaking instantly through the thin fabric of her nightgown.

It ran in rivulets down her spine, plastered the material to her skin, dripped off the ends of her pink hair.

The sharp, unmistakable scent of feminine arousal filled the room like perfume gone feral.

Cassius stared—face pale, mouth still open, dripping—realization crashing over him like ice water.

He hadn’t meant for this.

He’d been pushing—yes—teasing Carmela louder on purpose, reveling in the way Joy twitched and flinched with every moan, every wet sound.

He’d wanted to rattle her composure, to watch that iron facade crack just a little.

But this?

This was too far.

Even for him.

Carmela, her senses crashing back into her, followed his gaze. She saw the dark, wet patches spreading across Joy’s back.

Understanding dawned, and with it, a gasp of utter mortification.

"Joy! I-I apologize! I didn’t mean to! It just...went there!"

But Joy didn’t respond.

Didn’t even blink.

Instead, slowly, mechanically, she reached behind her back.

Her fingers brushed one of the sodden patches.

She brought her hand forward, rubbing the slick fluid between thumb and forefinger. Watching it stretch in thin, sticky strings.

She stared at it.

And stared.

And stared.

Then, something inside her simply...snapped.

With a sound halfway between a snarl and a sob, she surged to her feet.

Her hands flew to the hem of her nightgown—yanking it over her head in one furious motion.

The soaked fabric slapped wetly against the floor.

Pants followed—ripped down her legs so fast she nearly tripped.

Even the small white cap she always wore went sailing across the room.

In seconds she stood in nothing but pale pink underwear—cute, almost innocent in design, edged with delicate lace.

But her body was anything but innocent.

Slender, statuesque, honed by years of holy combat.

Long legs that could outrun horses.

Narrow waist flaring into surprisingly generous hips.

Ass round, firm, high—cheeks so perfectly sculpted they seemed carved rather than grown.

Breasts—perky, proud handfuls that sat high on her chest despite their surprising weight—rose and fell with every furious breath, nipples visibly stiff against the thin cotton cups.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was the look on her face.

Pure, blazing fury.

Eyes bloodshot and wild. Teeth bared. Holy aura flaring around her like a crown of golden fire—sharp enough to cut.

She looked like an avenging angel who had finally reached her breaking point.

Like she was two seconds away from summoning her axe and hammer and turning everyone in the room into red mist.