He materialized at the edge of the waterfall pool like smoke deciding to become solid.

One moment: empty air, the last orange light catching the mist, the waterfall throwing white noise into the dimming sky.

The next: him. Both women. His arms around each of them, their unconscious weight distributed against his sides, the smell of what had been done to them still on his skin and theirs.

He looked at the water.

The pool was wide and deep and clear — fed by the fall above, churning white at the center where the water hit, settling to glass at the edges. The light was going red at the treeline and the mist above the pool caught it, turning the air pink.

He looked at his hands.

He looked at the two women against him — Rika, thick and still and wrecked, her dress destroyed, her dark hair spread against his chest. The other woman, small and limp, the open shirt hanging from her shoulders, the insignia still faintly luminescent at her inner thigh.

He considered the water.

His hands moved.

Not to lower them in. Not to place them carefully.

He grabbed their clothes.

Both of them — his fingers closing on fabric, Rika’s destroyed dress at the collar, the other woman’s hanging shirt at the back — and he ’threw.’

Not them. The clothes.

The motion was two things happening simultaneously: his arms launching both women outward toward the pool while his hands pulled, the physics of it tearing the remaining fabric clean from their bodies with the simple, complete efficiency of a man who has calculated the exact force differential required.

The cloth stayed in his hands.

The women went into the water.

Two splashes. Two separate impacts, one heavy and one light, the pool erupting white around each entry point.

He stood at the edge.

Holding two ruined garments.

He dropped them.

For one second the pool was simply disturbed water — the white foam settling, the ripples expanding, the fall continuing its indifferent noise above.

Then:

"AAAAAHHH—?!?!"

Rika’s voice. The full-volume, completely disoriented scream of a woman whose body had been delivered from unconsciousness by the cold shock of water hitting every inch of her bare skin simultaneously. She came up already moving — her arms thrashing, her thick body breaching the surface, her head coming up with her mouth open and her eyes wide and water streaming from her hair.

"What— WHERE— what is HAPPENING—"

The other woman surfaced half a second behind her. Smaller, faster in the water, her dark hair plastered flat to her skull, her small tits visible above the surface as she came up gasping — her eyes finding the pool edge, the treeline, the waterfall, processing her location with the rapid assessment of someone with training.

Both women breathing hard.

Both women bare.

Both women trying to understand where they were and what had happened and why they were cold and wet and—

The other woman moved first.

Her hand shot out under the water — fast, the motion of someone acting on instinct before thought — and found something floating at the surface near Rika’s hip.

Rika’s panty.

The one remaining piece of fabric that had somehow survived the day’s demolition, floating placidly on the pool surface near its owner.

The other woman grabbed it.

She looked at it.

She looked at Rika.

Something moved across her face — something complicated, something that lived in the intersection of guilt and desperation and the instinct to manage information — and before that intersection could resolve into a decision, she acted on the instinct.

She stretched forward through the water.

She placed the panty on Rika’s head.

Directly over her eyes. The waistband across her forehead, the fabric dropping down, a thoroughly inadequate blindfold that covered her eyes and nothing else.

Rika stopped thrashing.

"What," she said. Her voice had gone flat with confusion. "What is on my head. What is on my head right now. What is this fabric. Why does it—" A pause. "Why does it smell like—"

"Nothing," the other woman said immediately.

"It smells like—"

"NOTHING."

"Who is this?" Rika’s hands came up, feeling the fabric on her face, not removing it yet — the particular paralysis of someone who has too many questions arriving simultaneously and cannot sort them into order. "Where am I? Why am I in water? Why am I— why am I not wearing— where are my— WHAT IS HAPPENING—"

The water behind her displaced.

She felt it before she heard it — the shift in the pool’s pressure, the movement of something large entering the water with the unhurried confidence of something that belongs in every environment it enters.

Then his arms.

Both of them, closing around her from behind — one across her chest, one across her belly, the full grip of him materializing around her body before she had processed that anything was approaching, his chest against her back, the heat of him conducting through the cold water immediately.

And his cock.

Sandwiched between her ass cheeks and his pelvis — not inside, not yet, just the full, heavy, crimson length of it pressed between the thick flesh of her ass, the heat of it impossible to misidentify, the girth of it pressing each cheek outward from the point of contact.

She went rigid.

"You—"

His mouth arrived at her ear.

"Suck it up," he said.

His voice was low and warm and carrying the particular tone of a man who has been patient all afternoon and has decided that the patience has served its purpose.

"And let me fuck you," he said, "until you forget everything."

His hand dropped below the water.

His palm pressed flat against the mound of her pussy — the soaked, oversensitive flesh, the insignia glowing pink beneath the surface of the water, the light of it visible even through the pool — and the moment his hand made contact, the mark activated.

The warmth hit her like a current.

Not from outside. From inside — the insignia conducting the incubus field directly into her nervous system through the mark on her skin, bypassing every wall and every argument and every ’I am a married woman’ she had spent the day assembling.

Her tongue came out.

Involuntarily. The flat press of it past her lower lip, her jaw going slack, her eyes rolling sideways behind the improvised blindfold of her own panty.

"MNGH—?! HAAAH—?!"

The other woman, treading water six feet away, watched Rika’s expression happen.

She had seen what the insignia did. She had felt it herself — was feeling the echo of it now, the mark on her own pussy warming in response to his presence in the water, the walls she had spent her whole life building vibrating at their foundations.

But she had not watched it happen to someone else.

She watched Rika’s face.

Her mouth opened.

"Wait—" She moved through the water, closing the distance. "Wait, don’t— she doesn’t know— you cannot just—"

His hand left Rika.

It found the other woman.

Not her pussy this time. Her small tits — both of them, his hand closing around one completely, the soft flesh filling his grip, his fingers finding the nipple and pinching hard.

"AAANGH—!!"

Her mouth was open on the cry and his mouth was already there.

His lips sealed over hers.