Damon forced the intense words down, choking on the bitter syllables.
"Yes."
Just that one word depleted all his strength.
The boiling, roaring emotions receded, leaving a chilling sorrow to engulf him.
Damon awaited the final judgment. No noble would tolerate insubordination, especially from a servant, let alone a mixed-race beastman—considered inferior and lowly compared to their purebred kin.
Bastard, wretch, cold-blooded lowly creature.
Those were the names he had been called before.
Since becoming a guard, people finally seemed willing to address him by his name. But none, like Margaret, could summon it with kindness and a soft voice.
—Damon.
The Duke's daughter welcomed him with a smile and a tender voice the first time they met. She was precious and adorable, never throwing tantrums.
When scolded by her mother for not scoring full marks or receiving a slap for misbehaving, she would hide in her blankets, quietly weeping.
Damon, don't tell anyone.
She peeked out from her messy hair, red-eyed, and tugged at his sleeve.
Damon, you didn't see me cry.
As she grew older, she paid special attention to her appearance.
The lace on her hat had to match the bow on her collar, and her hair had to be styled into fluffy buds.
Fearing to miss the afternoon tea gathering, she would lightly stomp her foot, urging him.
Damon, let's go faster. He would then scoop her up, supporting her body with just one arm, running in the wind.
Margaret's delighted laughter mixed with joyous shouts, grabbing his ear and yelling, Damon, fly!
Indeed, he could move as fast as flying.
Countless beautiful memories concluded on this evening. Damon gazed almost devoutly at Margaret, waiting for her to call his name again, pronouncing his death.
Would it be a loud berating, using magical potions to burn his insides?
Or would they lock him in the Duke's mansion dungeon, subjecting him to harsh punishment by the servants?
Damon envisioned countless fates. He feared neither death nor torture, found happiness in her insults, but despised the prospect of parting from life.
However, Margaret showed no reaction at all.
Her expression remained calm, and her deep blue eyes showed no ripple.
After a while, she lowered her eyelashes and muttered, "Oh, I see."
Margaret felt neither shame nor anger, even when the mixed-race beastman exposed himself, just moments ago calling out her name in self-indulgence.
Perhaps it was because she was too weary.
Worn out from years of exhaustion, she had lost the meaning behind her long-standing efforts.
Now, she had no desire to adhere to any norms, etiquette, and certainly not to become the virtuous woman her mother spoke of, Douglas' designated vase queen.
"What is this of yours, exactly?"
Margaret extended her index finger, lightly pressing against the base of his erect member. Her fingertip touched an oddly cool surface, prompting her to absentmindedly stroke it, feeling the slightly rough scale patterns.
Damon widened his eyes, staring at Margaret in confusion. His lower abdomen tightened completely, his member defying its owner's wishes, trembling with an exaggerated curve.
"So strange."
Margaret mused to herself, her index finger gliding slowly over the scaled sac, tracing along the shaft until it reached the upturned tip. "It's cool at the back, but quite warm at the front."
Damon's mind was becoming scrambled.
He wanted to escape, but Margaret directly grasped the throbbing member, issuing an unquestionable command, "Don't move."
Damon dared not move.
He could only maintain the kneeling position, hands tightly clutching the grass. His chest heaved violently, and his back arched like a taut bow.
"Miss..." he choked in his throat, sounding like a distressed large dog, "Miss, please don't do this."
But the body is always more honest than the mind. Every time Margaret touched the moist tip, Damon couldn't help but thrust his hips, offering this monstrous appendage into her hands.
"The red part, is it from the snow wolf genes?" Margaret continued exploring his body structure. "I heard that snow wolf blood is hot enough to melt rocks. The scaly areas belong to the signs of giant lizards and snakes. But how does the blood circulate between hot and cold..."
It was truly bizarre.
Margaret touched the curved tip again, her finger running along the indented flesh groove in the middle. "What purpose does this serve... to scrape semen?"
At some sensitive point, the robust flesh suddenly bounced, shooting out a hot stream of semen. It scattered on the grass in sparse droplets, some landing on Margaret's palm.
Damon was panting heavily.
His dilated pupils lost focus, lips slightly parted, as if forgetting how to articulate words.
Margaret felt her cheeks warm.
She touched it and indeed got some semen on her fingers.
This thing was pink, with no foul smell.
Margaret then extended her fingers into Damon's mouth, instructing him to lick off his own semen. The pitiful mixed-race beastman only obeyed commands, completely devoid of resistance.
"What does it taste like?" Margaret asked.
Damon subconsciously swallowed and, after a while, hoarsely replied, "It smells like burning dry grass."
Margaret found herself inexplicably wanting to laugh, and her eyes curved as she did.
Damon helplessly watched the mischievous miss.
He gave up thinking, only indulging in her every move.
Perhaps this was the miss's method of humiliation, forcing him to expose his vulnerability before death.
But how could this be considered humiliation?
He felt he should fulfill his final duty as a guard, instructing Margaret not to do such things to others. Any male would find her actions unbearable, interpreting them as seduction and temptation.
In the next moment, Margaret lifted her hand and ruffled his coarse, short, and gray hair. The fingers that had been licked were slightly damp, sliding slowly against the roots.
Damon's back erupted in goosebumps.
He couldn't help but start sobbing again, his throat making gurgling sounds, his once crimson eyes becoming blank and moist. Stimulated, his lower abdomen's member stood erect once more, restlessly poking at Margaret's leg.
"Quite spirited."
Margaret commented so, her smiling voice containing a subtle sense of vindictive satisfaction. She kissed Damon's trembling eyelids with her rosy lips, then stood up and placed her foot on his hot, rigid member. The soft arch of her foot rubbed against the shaft, the slightly red toes curling up, repeatedly stimulating the sensitive tip.