Emmy's tightly furrowed brows began to slowly relax, her breathing becoming rapid and shallow. The sensation of being filled so completely was indescribable, a physical reality that shattered her remaining defenses. Inside the small house, the air was heavy with the sounds of a woman's moans and a man's rhythmic panting. Surprisingly, the man claiming the lady of the house was not her husband, but a youth she had known since he was a child.
A young man and a mature woman—a passionate, illicit flame ignited between them.
Arnold thrust his hips with a punishing rhythm, carefully savoring the tight embrace of the beautiful woman beneath him. He relished the stimulation brought by the age difference and the sheer taboo of the act. Bucky would never have imagined that his best friend would use a plea for help to coerce his mother, exercising rights in their master bedroom that should have belonged only to his father.
"Oh... like that... yes... harder... ah... Arnold... please... Auntie can't take anymore..." Emmy was nearly in tears. The extreme physical response of her body made resistance impossible, and she gradually succumbed to the raw lust of the moment.
The sound of intense flesh colliding filled the room, accompanied by Emmy's seductive cries. Everything about the scene was a violation of the life she had known. Within minutes, she reached her breaking point. Her body tightened in waves, her long legs wrapping around Arnold's waist to pull him deeper. Her jade-painted toes curved sharply, a clear sign of the ultimate pleasure she was experiencing.
Arnold was reaching his limit as well. "Auntie, I'm going to fill you!"
"Ah, no... don't... you'll get pregnant!" Emmy cried out, yet her hips obediently rose to meet him.
Arnold had no intention of pulling out; he didn't have the habit of wasting his seed. He accelerated his pace for a final thirty thrusts before burying himself to the hilt. Thick heat flooded the depths of the mature woman's body, his powerful ejaculation reaching deep into her uterus. Emmy's eyes rolled back as another orgasm surged through her, and she fainted from the sheer intensity of the sensation.
When she finally regained consciousness, she found Arnold still joined with her, continuing his slow, relentless defilement. Her body felt heavy and full, the evidence of his claim still warm inside her.
"Auntie, turn over. I'm going to take you from behind," Arnold commanded, patting her ample buttocks.
Emmy, now completely broken and submissive, obediently turned over and knelt on the bed, her face buried in the pillow to hide her shame. For hours, until 2:00 a.m., Arnold explored every position, forcing his friend's mother to beg for mercy until he finally ejaculated inside her one last time.
Satisfied, Arnold let the conquered Emmy clean him with her lips before he dressed to leave. Having claimed his payment, it was time to deal with the debt.
After using the system to exchange points for a master-level fluency in Japanese, Arnold began his hunt. Queens, New York, was a maze of neon and shadow, and the Kawashima Dance Hall was the crown jewel of the Japanese underworld. It was a place where the women were docile and the men were dangerous.
Arnold, now in a state of calm "sagehood," walked through the doors with an air of absolute authority.
"Sir, would you like a beautiful companion to alleviate your loneliness?" a flirtatious dancer asked in English.
"Go tell your supervisor that the Royal Agent, Hikari, is looking for the Yamaguchi-gumi!" Arnold replied in sharp, arrogant Japanese. In the culture he was mimicking, men were the absolute authority; his tone alone demanded obedience.
The dancer was startled and quickly hurried into the back. A moment later, a man in a hat emerged, gesturing for Arnold to follow. Arnold stepped into a traditional Japanese-style room where a man with slicked-back hair sat drinking sake.
"You speak of the sun and steel," the slick-haired man sneered coldly, his aura cruel. "What proof do you have that you are a Royal Spy? If you cannot prove it, you die."
"Baka!" Arnold roared, slamming his fist onto the low table. "How dare you speak to me of rules? Have these street gangs grown so cocky that they forget their place? It seems you don't take the elite Iga shadow-arts seriously!"
With a snap of his fingers, a burst of magical flame erupted. The two armed guards standing behind the boss were instantly transformed into human torches.
The upgraded magic was terrifying; the guards couldn't even scream as their throats were seared shut. They collapsed, struggling in silent agony before falling still.
The scene completely stunned the slick-haired man. Between the impossible display of power and Arnold's chillingly arrogant demeanor, the yakuza boss turned pale, his bravado vanishing in an instant. He realized he wasn't dealing with a spy—he was dealing with a monster.
....
"This humble man, Nitta Koguma, pays his respects to Your Excellency! I was blind and ignorant; please forgive my insolence!" The slick-haired yakuza boss immediately slammed his forehead against the floor, his voice trembling with newfound respect.
"Hmph. You're the one in charge of this pigsty?" Arnold snorted coldly. He sat down with practiced arrogance, picked up a jug of sake, took a single sip, and then smashed the ceramic vessel directly over Nitta's head.
"Drinking this tasteless water is for weaklings. You and your men are like zombies—useless trash with no ambition and no fighting spirit!" Arnold slammed his fist on the table, the wood groaning under the impact.
This erratic, violent behavior only served to solidify Arnold's fake identity in Nitta's mind. In the rigid hierarchy of the Japanese underworld, only someone of immense power or noble blood would dare treat a regional boss with such disdain.
"Yes, Excellency! It was our fault," Nitta stammered, wiping sake from his eyes. "I will bring you the strongest liquor and the most exquisite women. May I ask what orders you have for our humble group?"
"Listen well, Nitta-kun. The Empire is preparing to teach the Americans a lesson they will never forget," Arnold said, leaning in and lowering his voice to an intimate, dangerous whisper. "The United States is researching a 'Miracle Drug'—a serum that can turn a weakling into a god capable of killing with a single punch. I am a member of the Royal Bloodline, sent here to secure this future for our people. If I achieve the Empire's targets, I return home to a hero's welcome. And you? As my loyal subordinate, I will personally recommend your promotion to the highest ranks of the Yamaguchi-gumi."
Arnold's choice of disguise was perfect. With the tension leading up to Pearl Harbor, the Japanese community in the U.S. was insular and fearful; they would never dare question a "Royal Agent" who wielded the "Ninja arts" of fire.
Nitta was completely hooked. He had seen the magical flames with his own eyes. "Yes, sir! Please, give your orders!"
"You recently arrested a gambler whose son is an officer in the American military. He is the key; he will be our bridge to extract the intelligence we need. Once the mission is complete, I get my glory, and you become the uncrowned king of New York. Do you understand, or is your head as empty as your sake jug?"
Nitta's heart raced. He saw a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. To sponsor a hidden Prince and help him rise to power was a path to status far beyond anything the mafia could offer. "Your Excellency, your servant, Nitta Koguma, swears eternal allegiance to you!" He knelt again, his head touching the floor in a gesture of absolute surrender.
"I won't discard those who are useful," Arnold sneered. "Give me the IOU for the Barnes family. I will handle them personally to ensure their cooperation. Also, take me to the prisoner. As your master, I will ensure your enemies disappear. There are no living witnesses in the hands of a ninja."
"Hi! Sir!" Nitta barked, scurrying to obey.
Arnold was secretly overjoyed as he felt the paper of the IOU in his hand. He had originally planned to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to settle this, but now he had cleared the debt for free—and he still had Bucky's mother under his thumb.
As they walked toward the basement, Arnold learned the dirty truth behind the casino's success. It was essentially a pyramid scheme. Debtors were forced to recruit their friends to gamble; the more their "friends" lost, the more their own debt was reduced. Bucky's parents had been dragged into this cycle by someone they trusted.
The basement was a grim, damp prison. In a cell at the very back sat a filthy, broken man—Bucky's father, Broz Barnes.
Arnold waved Nitta away. "Leave us. I need to speak to this American dog alone."
While Arnold stepped toward the cell, Nitta was already mentally calculating his future. He had checked Arnold's "identity" against his own intel on mysterious figures in the city, and everything seemed to fit the profile of a displaced Prince. The pressure on Nitta was immense; the Yamaguchi-gumi demanded high monthly fees, and failure meant losing fingers—or his life. To him, Arnold wasn't just a master; he was a lifeline.
Arnold looked through the bars at the exhausted man. The stage was set. He had the money, the magic, and now, he had the "Winter Soldier's" father in a cage.