The moon cast a silver, unforgiving light over the cratered field, filtering through the collapsed roof of the ruined farmhouse. It illuminated a scene of stark, silent violation. Zylle Mordan lay on a bed of straw, her magnificent body exposed, her power stripped away, a fallen goddess on a profane altar. Above her, a god of lust and power, knelt Alaric Steele.
His erection was a thing of brutalist art, a declaration of intent that required no words. It was a thick, brutally long pillar of flesh, pulsing with a life of its own, the prominent veins mapping its length like rivers of power on a continent of muscle. The head, a deep, angry purple, wept a single, clear bead of pre-come, a testament to the Archmage-level virility he now commanded. It was not merely an organ of pleasure; it was a weapon, a scepter of his newfound dominance.
