The chamber was a gilded cage, a cavern of blood-red marble veined with gold that drank the pallid moonlight. Above, a constellation of chandeliers hung silent and dark, their crystals glinting like frozen tears. A single shaft of celestial silver fell across the room, illuminating the heart of the space: a massive, canopied bed. It was a fortress of decadence, swathed in funereal black curtains designed to shield its occupant from the harshness of the sun, leaving them to bask in the corruption of the night.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
A relentless, rhythmic percussion of flesh against flesh, a stark and vulgar counterpoint to the room's oppressive silence.
"Anhng! Ah, by the gods… please!" The female moan was a ragged thing, torn from a throat raw with exertion. It was a plea muffled by goose-down pillows.
Within the curtained gloom of the bed, the air was thick and hot, heavy with the scent of salt, sex, and expensive perfume. A young boy, no older than fifteen, moved with a desperate, practiced rhythm. His skin was a canvas of alabaster, so pale the blue tracery of veins was visible at his temples. A shock of white hair, damp with sweat, clung to his brow, and his eyes—the colour of smoldering ashes, a stormy mix of red and grey—were narrowed in a mask of strained concentration. His body, a lean and prematurely sculpted form, was sheened in perspiration. Each defined abdominal muscle tightened like a cord as he drove his hips forward.
Beneath him, arched and straining, was a woman of breathtaking and terrible beauty. A cascade of porcelain-black hair, like a spill of midnight, fanned across the pillows. Her skin was the pale, flawless white of a marble statue, and down the elegant curve of her spine, sweat traced a glistening path. Her eyes, usually fierce embers of command, were glazed with helpless pleasure, their fiery light shimmering with unshed tears.
"I… I can't! Halt, I command you! Rest!" Her voice was a strained whisper. One pale, slender hand fluttered back, her fingers splaying against his sweat-slicked hip in a feeble attempt to push him away, to halt the relentless tide of sensation.
It was a futile gesture. Her resistance seemed only to stoke the fire within him. With a motion that was both swift and decisive, he captured both her wrists in one of his hands, pinning them against the small of her back, rendering her immobile. The power dynamic, for this fleeting moment, felt terrifyingly inverted.
"My apologies, Your Majesty," he breathed, his voice a low, husky rasp against the shell of her ear. "Your orders were explicit. I was not to stop… no matter how fervently you begged."
He emphasized his point by pulling his hips back, leaving only the weeping head of his shaft within her clenching heat, before driving forward again in a single, deep, punishing thrust.
"Arghhhhh!" Her cry was a raw, shattered thing. Her head thrown back, eyes rolling back until only the whites were visible, seeing constellations behind her eyelids. Her hands, trapped in his unyielding grip, clenched into white-knuckled fists.
Thump. Thump. THUMP. THUMP.
The sound grew louder, wetter, more violent.
"Ahnnnnng! Ahhng!"
A sharp crack echoed as his palm connected sharply with the full curve of her buttock. The pale skin bloomed immediately with a red handprint.
"Ahhhng! T-too much… it's too much!" she screamed into the pillow, her body jolting from the impact. Spittle gleamed on her chin, her regal composure utterly dissolved, fucked into mindless oblivion.
"The peak… I'm there, Your Majesty!" the boy grunted, his own control fraying at the edges, the coiled tension in his groin becoming unbearable.
She was beyond hearing, lost in a sybaritic haze, her every nerve ending alight. He was hitting a place deep within her that scattered thought and reason to the winds.
With a final, deep plunge, he pulled himself out. With a guttural groan, he fisted a hand in her midnight hair and pulled her head back, guiding his cock to her mouth. Her full, carmine lips, swollen from biting back her own cries, parted instinctively, wrapping around him. He spent himself in hot, pulsing jets down her throat.
She gagged for only a second before her throat worked, swallowing convulsively. "Gulp, gulp, mhmph, gulp." She drank his essence down with a desperate, starving urgency, as if it were the nectar of the gods themselves.
Spent, the boy—Luca—collapsed onto his back, his chest heaving. The cool silk of the sheets was a shock against his feverish skin. He thought it was over.
He was wrong.
Before he could even register the movement, she was on him again, her mouth enveloping his oversensitive, spent shaft.
"W-wait, Your Majesty… I'm too sensi—" His protest died in his throat as she began to bob her head, a wicked, determined suction that felt like it was pulling the very soul from his body.
"Ughhh! There is nothing left!" he cried out, his hands flying to her head, not to guide, but to push. It was like trying to shove a mountain. What strength did a former cripple have against one of the most powerful magisters in the empire? He was utterly at her mercy.
'F-fuck. This ravenous witch,' he cursed inwardly, his back arching, his toes curling involuntarily against the sheets.
"Slurp, glrk, slurp<3" The obscene, wet sounds filled the silent chamber, a symphony of her greed.
She looked up then, her ember eyes locking with his. They were no longer glazed, but sharp, filled with a voracious hunger. A wicked smirk played on her lips, stretched around his girth. She took him deep, to the hilt, until he felt the head of his cock nudge the entrance to her throat.
"Arghhhh! I-I'm—!" he groaned, a second, impossible climax being ruthlessly milked from him.
As if she had been waiting for that very signal, she pulled back, keeping only the tip in her mouth. And then it came—a second, weaker, almost painful release. His head fell back as he came again, a dry, shuddering spasm, into her waiting mouth.
She swallowed it all with the same avaricious relish, ensuring not a single drop was wasted.
With a soft, final pop, she released him, his now utterly flaccid manhood falling against his thigh.
"Hmmmm, a satisfactory vintage, Luca..." she purred, her voice a low, devilish hum as she wiped a stray droplet from her lip with a slender finger.
Luca could only draw ragged breaths, his body feeling like a wrung-out cloth. "I… am glad… to be of service, Your Majesty."
She clicked her tongue in annoyance, rising from the bed with a fluid, powerful grace that belied their recent exertions. She slipped into a silk nightgown so fine it did nothing to hide the proud, dark points of her nipples or the memory of his hands on her hips. "See that you are prepared for tomorrow. It is your Awakening Day. Do not embarrass me."
With a final, unreadable glance, she swept from his chambers, the heavy door closing with a definitive thud that echoed in the sudden silence.
Only then did Luca allow the mask to fully crumble. He drew a long, shuddering breath and collapsed back into the sweat-and-sex-stained sheets.
'Damn that woman to the deepest hell,' he seethed, the thought a venomous coil in his mind.
His journey to this moment was a bitter irony. A second chance at life, reincarnated in a world of magic and wonder after a truck in his previous world had cut his first life short. Initially, there was hope; a new family. But life, it seemed, held a special contempt for him.
He had been born frail, his body a fragile vessel that grew weaker with each passing year, until the simple act of walking became a distant memory. The love of a family, he learned, was a conditional currency. As medical bills drained their meager coffers, the warmth in his parents' and siblings' eyes cooled, hardened, and finally turned to resentment. He was a burden. And burdens are discarded.
They sold him. For a hundred bronze coins—the value of a single silver. The memory was a cold shard in his heart. "How utterly worthless," he whispered to the empty, lavish room, a bitter smile twisting his lips.
At the slave market, his fate seemed destined for a different, yet equally vile, end. His crippled body was overlooked, but his face—a work of art carved from pale marble, with stormy eyes and white hair—attracted the attention of deviants and fetishists. The bidding was a humiliating spectacle of lurid interest.
Then, a voice, calm and absolute, cut through the noise. One hundred platinum coins. A sum so astronomical it had silenced the entire market. A king's ransom for a crippled slave.
For a fleeting, foolish moment, he had dared to hope. That hope had curdled into a different kind of despair when he was presented to his new owner: Her Imperial Majesty, Alexandra Tan Zalanta, the Sun Empress of the Yvesian Empire.
She did not want a servant. She did not want a son. She wanted a plaything. A beautiful, broken doll to mend and then defile. And so, at the age of thirteen, the molestation began. She was thirty-seven.
A sick, twisted joke.
He couldn't deny the base, animalistic pleasure his body was forced to feel—she was a devastatingly beautiful woman, and her touch was expertly cruel. But in the quiet aftermath, the disgust always rose, a tidal wave of self-loathing and hatred for his captor.
"Enough," he growled to the empty room, pushing himself up to strip the soiled linens. The past was a prison he could not escape, but tomorrow… tomorrow promised a flicker of something new. An Awakening.
He slid under a fresh, cool blanket, the silken fabric a mockery of comfort. Closing his eyes, he willed his mind to go blank, building walls against the memories. Tomorrow was a new kind of trial, and he would need every ounce of his strength to face it.