In the throne room, Jason watches as his wife is possessed by his arch-enemy, Victor. Pleasure, pain, and humiliation intertwine in a power play where loyalties and desires are put to the test.
The oil torches cast dancing shadows upon the gilded marble of the throne room; the airy scent of incense barely manages to disguise the acrid smell of sex that already permeates the chamber. Jason, absolute sovereign, rests his elbows on the arms of the ebony seat. The pivot of his jaw tightens as his gaze locks onto the figure of his wife. She advances barefoot over the cold frieze, barely covered by a black mesh suit that clings to her like a second skin: her bare back culminates in round, turgid buttocks that sway with every timid step. The fabric tucks between her cheeks, accentuating the cleft and revealing the softness of the flesh. Jason notices his own pulse quicken; his fingers drum against the wood while an ear-to-ear grin carves lasciviousness into his countenance.
In the center of the room, Victor—the arch-enemy who cost him so much blood to subdue—waits with his back straight. He is naked from the waist up; his muscles are etched beneath bronzed skin and a thin layer of sweat. His penis, thick and throbbing, rises against his belly like a sword in wait. When the young woman stops half a meter from him, Victor clenches his jaw and his erection twitches, anticipating the conquest. Jason approves with a slight nod: that is the man who so many times dreamed of overthrowing him; now, however, he has him on his knees… even if it is to fuck.
Jason's wife lowers her gaze even further. Her cheeks burn crimson as she feels the pupils of the two males settle upon her. Her hands are interlaced, white nails pressing into her palms, and her chest rises and falls with an anxiety that pulses in her throat. As Victor circles her, the hot air of the room seems to thicken; her breath catches as she feels the hot tip of the enemy phallus brush against the curve of her buttocks. The contact is barely a whisper of skin against skin, but it is enough for a tremor to run down her spine.
Jason settles into the throne. The joints of his knees spread apart and his silk robe falls to either side, exposing his strong thighs. His right hand slides over the fabric, feels the protrusion already propping up his underpants and, as he adjusts his cock with a slow squeeze, he spits out the only word no one dares contradict:
"Begin."
The sound is barely a whisper, but in the room, it feels like a cannon blast. Victor lunges without ceremony: he circles the woman's waist with one arm, pulls her toward him and, with the other hand, guides the head of his cock to her tight asterisk. The wife holds her breath; her heart thumps in her ears as she feels the pressure, the burn of the tip trying to force a path. Victor pushes all at once. The sphincter gives way with a brief resistance and then an oval of fire opens up through her rectum. The enemy member slides inside the narrow duct, tearing her at a point between pain and thick pleasure. A muffled moan escapes her: deeper than she expected, vibrating in her throat.
Jason sits up, fascinated. He sees how the flesh of his beloved's buttocks expands to receive the invasion, how the anus stretches forming a shiny ring around Victor's shaft. The blood hums in his temples and, without thinking, he lowers the zipper of his trousers. His cock presents itself erect, reddish and pulsating; he wraps his hand around it and squeezes just as Victor slowly withdraws only to plunge back in. The enemy bites his lip, savoring the intestinal warmth, and lunges again, this time with more impetus, stabbing to the base. The clash of pelvis against buttocks resonates: a wet smack that reverberates off the golden walls.
The wife lets out a long exhalation that ends in a moan. Her vagina, wet and forgotten, throbs in the void; her lips swell and stick to her lace slip, marking a dark dampness. She wants to touch her clit, but her hands disconnect from her brain: she can barely hold onto Victor's arm as he pierces her anus with a cadence that begins fast, almost cruel. Pleasure climbs up her spine in the form of shivers, but shame keeps her head bowed. In the corner of her eye, she distinguishes Jason: her husband, her lord, her master who now masturbates without disguise while another man possesses her.
Jason pulls his robe away with a jerk. His undershirt sticks to his chest with sweat; his fingers coil around the trunk of his penis, sliding down the inferior vein and stopping just under the head, pressing the wet groove of pre-cum with his thumb. With his other hand, he grips the arm of the throne, nails scratching the wood. His eyes are fixed on the union between the two bodies: his enemy's cock entering and exiting, glistening with the natural balsam of his woman's rectum. The spectacle is hypnotic. Each thrust excites him more than the last; each moan from her is a spark that runs through his glans.
"Deeper… more," Jason orders, his voice clipped by his breathing. It is not a plea, but a master's command.
Victor laughs softly, a low growl of triumph. He tucks a hand under the wife's armpit and tilts her forward, changing the angle. Now each stroke stabs straight to the back of the intestine, brushing the wall that separates the anus from the vagina. The woman screams: a sharp, uninhibited sound that echoes in the vault. Sweat drips between her breasts; the mesh suit clings to her hardened nipples. Victor takes advantage: he slides his fingers down her neckline, pulls the fabric down and reveals her breasts—small, taut, with rosy areolas that prickle at the contact of the air. He feels them with an expert hand, pinches the nipples and tugs at them while his cock continues its round trip through the tight hole.
The wife feels the pleasure become a dark tide: the initial pain dissipates, giving way to a lust that shames and elevates her at the same time. Her anus dilates; the friction of Victor's cock against her internal walls sends sparks to her uterus, which contracts into the void. Her clitoris throbs, demanding attention, and she, unable to contain herself any longer, slides a trembling hand toward her crotch. But Victor is faster: he grabs her wrist and pins it against the nearby column, immobilizing her.
"No. Today you are used at their whim," he whispers in her ear, his hot breath mixing with the jasmine perfume of her hair. "Your cunt can wait. Your ass is what matters."
Jason observes the disappointment and the wetness in his wife's eyes; the mixture drives him mad. He squeezes his own member hard, picking up the pace: his hand slides from tip to base, twisting slightly at the end to feel the wet tip. He imagines he is the one inside her anus, that it is his cock receiving the spasms of another's pleasure. But it also excites him to know he cannot intervene: he is a sovereign voyeur who controls even his own abstinence. He wonders, between gasps, how long he will hold out before coming over his own belly.
Victor increases the rhythm: his hips move like a whirlwind, striking against the buttocks that redden with every impact. Sweat falls down his chest and splashes her back. He leans in, kisses her nape, tastes the salt of her skin and goes down to bite her earlobe. His free hand goes down the woman's side, stops at the waist, and then continues to the inner thigh, brushing the wet vulva without entering. He denies entry, caressing the damp folds and making her tremble with need. The wife moans, desperate, and suffers each new anal onslaught like a wave that brings her closer to the edge… though the edge is unreachable without her cunt being attended to.
The room spins for her: the golden reliefs become blurred as the denied climax accumulates in her groin. Jason, meanwhile, stands up. The muscles of his thighs seize; the cock in his hand pulses firmly. He grits his teeth and restrains himself: he doesn't want to finish yet. He prefers to see how the enemy pours his milk inside the rectum of the woman he swore to protect. That thought—a mixture of jealousy, power, and morbid fascination—makes him shudder. He takes a step forward, the flicker of his torches reflecting glints of sweat on his chest, but he remains at a distance, watchful.
Victor, showing signs that he won't hold out much longer either, grabs the wife's hips with both hands. He traps her forcefully and immobilizes her while he drives his penis to the hilt over and over. The pressure in his testicles is unbearable. With a contained roar, he arches: he feels the first spurt of semen burst and fill the intestinal canal. The wife, feeling the heat spreading inside her, shudders and lets out a raspy "Ah!" that is lost in the vault. Her buttocks tighten unconsciously, massaging the cock that is still discharging, and Victor lets himself fall over her back, panting, leaving the last drop inside her.
"Turn around!" Jason exclaims, his voice as coarse as a hacksaw.
The wife, trembling, obeys. Her anus throbs open, dripping a mixture of semen and intimate resin down the inside of her thighs. Victor withdraws slowly, his cock slipping out with a wet pop, and he steps aside, satisfied and exhausted. Jason kneels in front of his wife. Their eyes meet: she doesn't know whether to ask for forgiveness or claim her own orgasm. However, Jason only smiles with malice. He grabs his cock, brings it close to her belly, rubs it against her warm skin without penetrating her and, with a few brute tugs, discharges a thick stream that splatters her navel and breasts. The supreme leader lets out a long growl while the vision of his semen mixing with his enemy's makes him tremble with ecstasy.
The scene remains suspended in a silence broken only by gasps. The wife remains standing, disheveled, with her vagina wet and her anus dripping. Victor slowly moves away, picks up his cloak and covers himself, without taking his eyes off Jason: the defiance remains latent, though now coated in a strange camaraderie of pleasure. Jason, still with his cock in his hand and his heart racing, does not know if on the next occasion he will reclaim his husbandly right or offer her as booty once again. In the throne room, the future is as uncertain as the flash of a sword in the flame… for now, only the smell of sex, the muffled moans, and the promise that this power play has only just begun.