Chapter 174: Bruce lets his wives sleep
The humid air hung thick with the scent of spent sex – sweat, coconut oil, the musk of multiple women, and the faint, lingering tang of Bruce’s suppressed release. Silk sheets were tangled, damp, and pushed aside. Bodies lay intertwined in the sprawling master bed, a landscape of exhausted flesh bathed in the pale pre-dawn light filtering through the panoramic windows overlooking the Balinese jungle. Lena, true to form, was draped possessively over Bruce’s chest, her thick leg hooked over his hip, her face buried in the crook of his neck, her legendary ass pressed firmly against his thigh. Camille lay curled against his other side, one arm flung across his abdomen, her breathing deep and even. Jasmine’s dark curls spilled over Lena’s lower back, her hand resting on Bruce’s calf. Mystique’s long limbs were tangled with Erika’s pale ones near the foot of the bed. Ketut slept nestled against Sophia’s sculpted back, Priya spooned Elara, the Russian doctor’s face still holding a trace of apprehension even in sleep.
Bruce’s eyes snapped open. Not groggily, but with sudden, sharp clarity. The swirling green, blue, and gold depths of his hazel irises churned intensely for a moment before settling. It wasn’t sound that woke him. It was a pulse. A deep, internal thrumming synchronized with nine distinct rhythms echoing faintly from the nursery wing. His sons. Hunger. Raw, primal, and immense.
He moved with practiced silence, the surge ability humming just beneath his skin, lending him effortless strength as he carefully disentangled himself. Lena murmured a sleepy protest, her hand clutching blindly at the air where his chest had been. Bruce gently brushed a strand of dark hair from her forehead. "Sleep, mi sombra," he whispered, the Spanish endearment for 'my shadow' slipping out naturally. She sighed, curling tighter into Camille’s warmth. Elara stirred slightly, her grey eyes fluttering open, wide and momentarily lost. Lena, half-asleep, sensed her unease. Without opening her eyes, she reached out a hand, patting the space Bruce had vacated. "Scooch… get over here, Doc… warmth…" she mumbled. Elara hesitated for only a second before cautiously sliding closer, her body relaxing slightly as she pressed against Lena’s comforting heat.
Bruce padded naked across the cool teak floor, his muscular frame moving with predatory grace past the sleeping forms. The sprawling villa was silent except for the distant rush of the waterfall integrated into the central courtyard and the gentle gurgle of the koi pond. He moved through the airy corridors, the scent of frangipani replacing the musk of the bedroom. The nursery door slid open silently.
Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the scent of baby powder and something else… something deeper, muskier. Nine oversized cribs lined the spacious room. Eight were still quiet, their occupants sleeping the deep sleep of the unnaturally satiated. But in the crib marked ‘Bruce Junior’, a small mountain was stirring.
Bruce approached, his breath catching. Three months old. But Bruce Junior wasn’t just stirring; he was heaving himself up onto surprisingly thick forearms. His head, covered in dark, downy hair, lifted, revealing eyes that snapped open – swirling hazel mirrors of his father’s, but burning with an intense, hungry light. The baby wasn’t crying. He was glaring. A low, rumbling growl vibrated in his tiny chest.
"Jesus," Bruce breathed, the shock visceral. He’d seen the accelerated growth, the unnatural strength, but this… this was a leap. The infant was easily the size of a robust six-month-old, his limbs thick with nascent muscle, his belly taut. The hunger radiating from him was palpable, a physical pressure in the room.
Bruce moved quickly, his fatherly instincts overriding the shock. He scooped the surprisingly heavy infant into his arms. Bruce Junior immediately nuzzled fiercely against his chest, rooting with startling force. "Easy, big guy," Bruce murmured, carrying him towards the preparation area. He grabbed one of the specially formulated, high-calorie bottles kept warm in a sterilizer. The bottle looked comically small in Bruce Junior’s large hands as Bruce guided the nipple towards his mouth.
The infant latched on with terrifying ferocity. His jaw muscles bunched, his cheeks hollowed, and the thick formula vanished at an alarming rate. Bruce watched, a complex mix of awe, pride, and profound unease twisting in his gut. He changed the diaper swiftly; it was soaked and heavy, smelling strongly of ammonia and something vaguely metallic. Bruce Junior barely noticed, utterly focused on draining the bottle, his eyes fixed on his father’s face with unnerving intensity. The bottle emptied in under a minute. Bruce Junior let out a frustrated grunt, shoving the empty bottle away with surprising strength. His hungry gaze locked onto Bruce’s face again, the growl returning, deeper this time.
"Alright, alright," Bruce soothed, grabbing another bottle. "Bottomless pit." He warmed it quickly under a faucet, testing the temperature on his wrist. Bruce Junior snatched it the moment it was offered, sucking with the same desperate intensity. Bruce held him, feeling the powerful muscles working in the infant’s jaw, the heat radiating from his small body. Monstrous hunger, he thought again, the phrase echoing ominously. Nine of them. What would they be like at one year? At five?
He stood rocking gently as Bruce Junior demolished the second bottle, the growl subsiding into deep, satisfied gulps. The other infants began to stir now, responding to the feeding energy or their own burgeoning hunger. Soft whimpers and rustling sounds filled the room. Bruce knew the morning routine was about to explode into chaos. He placed the drowsy, finally sated Bruce Junior back in his crib. The infant curled onto his side, eyes drifting shut, a tiny, milk-drunk smile touching his lips. The ferocious hunger vanished, replaced by pure, innocent contentment. The contrast was jarring.
Bruce lingered for a moment, watching his firstborn sleep. The surge thrummed softly within him, a constant reminder of the power – and the terrifying responsibility – flowing through their bloodline. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the onslaught of nine ravenous boys and the waking wives. He slid the nursery door shut quietly and headed back towards the master suite.
The scent of coffee and something sweet greeted him as he neared the main living area adjoining the bedroom. Voices drifted out – low, feminine, laced with sleep and amusement. He paused in the doorway.
The wives were awake, draped in silk robes or wearing nothing at all, moving with the easy familiarity of shared lives and bodies. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Jasmine was bent over the massive breakfast bar, her incredible ass showcased perfectly in tiny shorts as she piled fruit onto plates. Lena was helping, her own thick legs and sculpted ass (Sophia’s training evident) a counterpoint. Mystique stood by the espresso machine, her tall, dark figure statuesque. Ketut and Sophia were setting the long teak table, Sophia’s sculpted physique moving with athletic grace, Ketut’s toned legs and perky ass a testament to Sophia’s regime. Erika sat curled on a vast sofa, pale legs tucked under her, sipping coffee, her startling blue eyes still heavy-lidded. Priya and Elara were arranging platters of pastries, Elara looking more settled, her grey eyes occasionally flicking towards Priya with a hint of warmth. Camille presided, her striking face alert, directing the flow with quiet authority.
"...and then," Lena was saying, her voice bright with remembered ecstasy, "he slammed me down so hard I swear I saw stars, Papi! My asshole felt like it was on fire... in the best fucking way!" She grinned, winking at Jasmine. "Still think yours is best, Jas?"
Jasmine snorted, tossing a grape at her. "Papi crowned mine, bitch. Deal with it. Besides," she added, a predatory gleam in her green eyes, "you shoulda seen him wreck Mystique’s pussy after. Made her scream like a banshee."
Mystique didn’t look up from the espresso machine, but a slow, satisfied smile curved her lips. "Damn right he did. Filled me up proper." She poured a shot with practiced ease.
Ketut giggled, placing bowls on the table. "Sophia made me ride him like a champion," she said proudly, glancing at the Spanish trainer. "Used these legs." She flexed a toned thigh.
Sophia grinned, slapping Ketut’s ass playfully. "You earned it, chica. Took that monster cock like a pro."
Erika sighed contentedly. "Fokk, it was good. Lena’s mouth...magic." She stretched languidly.
Camille caught sight of Bruce in the doorway. Her dark eyes softened, then sharpened with concern as she took in his expression – the lingering shock, the deep contemplation beneath the surface calm. "Mi amor," she called, her voice warm but probing. "You look like you wrestled a komodo dragon in the nursery. Everything alright with the boys?"
All eyes turned to him. Lena paused, a bowl of mango slices in hand. Jasmine stopped piling fruit. The easy morning chatter died down. Bruce stepped fully into the room, the scent of coffee and warm pastries mingling with the faint, lingering musk still clinging to his skin. He met Camille’s gaze, then scanned the faces of his wives – fierce, loyal, beautiful, his everything.
"Bruce Junior," he started, his voice low, rough with the remnants of his dawn vigil. "He’s… growing. Fast. Strong." He paused, choosing his words carefully, the image of the infant’s hungry glare vivid in his mind. "He drained two bottles faster than I could warm the second. Changed him… felt like lifting a sack of cement." He ran a hand through his hair. "The hunger… it’s not normal. None of it is."
A ripple of understanding, mixed with maternal pride and the same unease Bruce felt, passed through the women. Lena put the mango bowl down slowly. Jasmine’s playful smirk faded. Mystique handed Camille a steaming espresso. Camille took it, her gaze never leaving Bruce’s swirling hazel eyes.
"We knew it wouldn’t be," Camille said quietly, her voice steady, anchoring. "They have your blood. Your strength." She took a sip of coffee, her dark eyes holding his. "What did you see in his eyes, Bruce?"
Bruce held her gaze, the memory sharp and unsettling. "Hunger," he stated flatly. "Pure, raw hunger. Like a predator waking. Not a baby’s cry." He looked around at his wives, the mothers of his extraordinary sons. "He looked at me… and growled."
Silence descended, thick and heavy, replacing the easy morning banter. The scent of coffee suddenly seemed sharp, the sunlight too bright. The jungle outside felt closer, wilder. The reality of their unique family, the power thrumming in their veins, settled over them like a tangible weight. Nine sons. Monstrous hunger. And eyes that held the swirling storm of their father’s legacy. The celebration was over. The future, vast and uncertain, stretched before them, demanding to be fed.
The humid silence stretched taut after Bruce’s words. The cheerful clatter of breakfast preparation died completely. Jasmine’s hand froze mid-air, a strawberry poised above a plate. Lena’s playful grin vanished, replaced by a sudden, protective stillness. Even the distant jungle sounds seemed muted. Camille’s espresso cup clicked softly against its saucer. "Growled?" she echoed, her voice low and steady, though her knuckles whitened on the fine porcelain. "Like… an animal?"
"Exactly like that," Bruce confirmed, the memory of Junior’s primal glare sharpening the unease coiling in his gut. He moved further into the sunlit room, the cool teak floor beneath his bare feet contrasting with the warmth radiating from his tense muscles. "Not fussy. Hungry. Predatory." He met each wife’s gaze – Mystique’s fierce concern, Ketut’s wide-eyed apprehension, Sophia’s calculating frown, Priya’s professional worry, Elara’s unsettled curiosity, Erika’s pale shock, Jasmine’s fierce protectiveness flaring alongside Lena’s mirrored intensity. "He drained two bottles meant for infants twice his supposed age. Changed him… felt like wrestling a pissed-off badger cub."
Lena abandoned the fruit bowl, crossing the room swiftly. Her thick legs carried her with surprising speed. She pressed herself against Bruce’s side, her small hand gripping his bicep possessively. "He’s strong, Papi," she murmured, her voice thick with a mix of pride and fear. "Like his daddy. That’s all." But her dark eyes searched his swirling hazel depths, seeking reassurance she couldn’t fully give herself.
"Strong is one thing," Priya interjected, her doctor’s mind cutting through the emotional haze. She pushed her glasses up her nose, her expression grave. "Accelerated growth, disproportionate strength, and now… predatory instincts? Bruce, we need comprehensive metabolic panels. Neurological scans. Yesterday." Her gaze flickered towards the nursery wing. "This isn’t just accelerated development. This feels… altered."
Before Bruce could respond, a sharp, demanding wail pierced the quiet – not Junior’s low growl, but a higher, insistent cry from the nursery. Then another. And another. Within seconds, a cacophony of hungry infant sounds erupted, a dissonant chorus echoing through the villa’s open spaces. The sound wasn't just loud; it vibrated with a strange, unsettling intensity, rattling the delicate glassware on the breakfast bar.
"Fokk," Erika breathed, setting her coffee down with trembling hands. "They’re awake."
Chaos descended. The wives moved as one, years of shared motherhood overriding the lingering shock. Camille snapped into command. "Sophia, Ketut – bottles, sterilizer, now. Double the formula powder. Jasmine, Lena – diapers, wipes, the heavy-duty ones. Mystique, Erika – prep the changing stations. Priya, Elara – help me gather them." Her voice cut through the din, precise and urgent. Bruce moved towards the nursery, Lena clinging to his side like a shadow.
Bruce moved towards the nursery, Lena clinging to his side like a shadow. The cacophony of infantile wails intensified, layered now with sharp cracks of splintering wood and sharp cries of infantile frustration. He pushed the door open. Chaos. Kael, Lena’s son, had wrenched a thick wooden slat free from his crib’s side, waving it like a tiny club, his swirling hazel eyes blazing with fury. Bjorn and Leif, Erika’s twins, rolled together in a snarling, surprisingly powerful tangle of limbs on the changing mat, tiny fists clenched. Lucas screamed relentlessly, his face crimson, while Bruce Junior watched it all with unnerving calm, his eyes tracking the chaos with focused intensity.
"Alright, monsters, settle!" Bruce’s voice boomed, laced with command and the subtle thrum of the surge he kept just beneath the surface. It wasn’t loud aggression, but a vibration that momentarily stilled the air. The wives surged in behind him, efficiently fanning out. Lena immediately went to Kael, prying the wood from his surprisingly strong grip. "Easy, baby," she cooed, though her eyes held a flicker of worry as she met his swirling, furious gaze. "Mommy’s here." Jasmine and Sophia corralled the battling twins, separating them with gentle but firm strength. Mystique scooped up Lucas, bouncing him forcefully. "Shhh, big boy, shhh," she murmured, pressing him against her full breasts. Ketut moved swiftly to Kadek’s crib, her expression focused as she lifted him, her gaze instinctively locking onto his eyes.
"Look at his eyes!" Ketut gasped, holding Kadek close. "Swirling like Bruce’s… but faster. Chaotic. Green is… angry? Gold is… hungry!" She shifted the baby, peering intently. "Blue… confused? So much confusion." Her brow furrowed in intense concentration, trying to decipher the volatile storm in her son’s irises. Elara, helping Priya prepare bottles with trembling hands, glanced at Bruce, her grey eyes wide with scientific alarm. "The neural pathways… they’re developing at an impossible rate alongside the musculature. The aggression… it could be synaptic overload, primal impulses unchecked."
Bruce picked up Mateo, Camille’s son, who immediately latched onto his thumb, sucking with bruising force. He met Elara’s gaze over the squalling infants. "We have to figure out how to teach them to control it," he stated, his voice tight with urgency. The memory of Junior’s predatory glare was seared into his mind. "Maybe I can do it. On a primal, cellular level." He looked down at Mateo, feeling the fierce pull of the child’s need. "I’ve attuned my body to respond to their waking and sleeping, their basic rhythms. Maybe… maybe I can somehow extend that attunement. Help them find the control switch before they tear this place apart… or hurt themselves." The thought of one of his sons accidentally surging, breaking a sibling’s bones with a thoughtless grip, sent a chill through him.
"Feed them!" Camille commanded, practicality overriding the tension. The wives moved with renewed purpose, settling into chairs, sinking heavily onto the thick nursery rug, pressing bottles to hungry mouths. The room filled with the wet, gulping sounds of unnaturally powerful sucks. Bruce stood amidst it, Mateo still gnawing his thumb, watching. Kael drank fiercely from Lena’s breast, his little hands kneading her small tit almost painfully. Junior, back in his crib, watched Bruce with unnerving stillness, his swirling eyes reflecting the dawn light filtering through the blinds.
The enormous teak dining table groaned under platters of grilled fish, exotic fruits, steaming rice, and thick, protein-rich stews. Silence reigned, broken only by the scrape of cutlery and the voracious chewing of nine infants seated in reinforced high chairs. Their tiny hands shoveled food with startling speed and coordination, gnawing meat off bones, crushing fruit with powerful jaws. The air hung thick with the greasy scent of cooked flesh, sweet fruit, and the underlying musk of powerful, rapidly growing bodies. Lena, sitting beside Kael, watched him demolish a whole banana, peel and all, her expression a mix of awe and exhaustion. "Slow down, baby," she murmured, wiping mango juice from his chin. He grunted, ignoring her, grabbing a chunk of grilled tuna.
Ketut hadn’t stopped observing. She chewed slowly, her dark eyes darting between her own son, Kadek, sucking on a marrow bone, and Bruce at the head of the table. "Bruce," she said, her voice cutting through the eating sounds. "Kadek’s eyes. When he bites… the blue surges. Calm focus. But when he swallowed that piece too big?" She shook her head. "Gold spiked. Frustration? Hunger pang?" She pointed her fork at Lucas in Sophia’s lap. "Lucas. Watching Erika’s twins wrestle earlier. Green swirls, fast. Excitement? Aggression?" She looked back at Bruce. "It’s like… a storm. But the colors… they might be signals. Emotions amplified, uncontrolled, translated through your gift." Her gaze intensified. "Can you feel it? Not just their wakefulness… but the flavors of it? The anger? The hunger?"
Bruce paused, a piece of papaya halfway to his mouth. He closed his eyes, pushing past the familiar thrum of their wakeful energy, deeper. He focused on Kael beside Lena. There it was – a sharp, jagged spike beneath the surface calm, the gold Ketut mentioned, vibrating like a plucked wire. Frustration? Lena tried to gently remove the fish bone he was gumming. Kael snarled, a tiny, animal sound. Yes. Frustration. Bruce shifted his focus to Bruce Junior, observing his siblings. A cool, watchful blue, steady but intense. Calculative? "Shit," Bruce breathed, opening his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I can feel it. Faintly. Like… different frequencies." He looked at Elara, seated beside Priya. "That attunement… maybe that’s the key. If I can feel the signature of their state… maybe I can project back. Not control… but guide. Model calm." The enormity of the task felt overwhelming. Teaching infants emotional regulation was hard. Teaching infants with mutant strength and predatory instincts how to dampen their own power before they shattered their cribs or each other? Daunting.
Jasmine snorted, expertly spooning pureed liver into Kaelen’s eager mouth. "Model calm? Papi, you gonna sit them down for meditation? Tiny little zen masters?" She grinned, but it didn’t reach her worried eyes. "They need to fuckin’ play. Burn it off. Safely."
"Sophia's obstacle course," Lena suggested, perking up. "The padded one in the gym. Maybe… channel it? Wrestling mats?"
"Maybe," Bruce conceded, though his mind raced with the cellular connection. He pushed his plate away, appetite gone, replaced by the gnawing need to act. The weight of responsibility pressed down. His gaze swept the table, landing on Lena. Her thick leg was pressed against his thigh, radiating warmth. Her dark eyes met his, and the familiar spark of insatiable need flared in them, momentarily eclipsing the worry. A different kind of energy coiled low in his belly, the surge responding to her unspoken invitation. They needed release. Pure, physical oblivion. The nursery chaos, the terrifying potential of his sons – it all demanded an outlet only their raw communion could provide. He saw the same desperate need mirrored in the tense lines of Jasmine’s body, the restless shift of Camille’s hips on the chair. The breakfast table suddenly felt stifling.
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly. "Gym," he stated, his voice rough. "Now. All of you. Sophia’s course." His swirling eyes held Lena’s, then swept over Jasmine, Camille, Mystique, Erika. "Need to work off some… tension." The unspoken command, thick with sexual promise, hung in the air. Ketut’s eyes widened slightly, her gaze dropping to his lap, sensing the shift. Sophia smiled slowly. Priya and Elara exchanged a look, apprehension mixed with a flicker of curiosity.
They moved quickly, the unfinished breakfast forgotten. The walk to the sprawling, glass-walled gym overlooking the jungle was charged. Lena stuck to Bruce’s side like glue, her hand finding his, fingers lacing tightly. Jasmine walked just ahead, her incredible ass swaying with predatory intent in her tight leggings. Bruce felt the surge building, not for strength, but for the raw stamina he’d need. By the time they reached the high-ceilinged space filled with padded equipment, weight racks, and thick mats, his cock was already thickening, pressing hard against his shorts. The scent of rubber and clean sweat mingled with the wives’ arousal perfuming the air.
Lena didn’t wait. She pushed Bruce back against a thick, padded post. "Need it, Papi," she breathed, her voice husky with need. Her hands went to the waistband of his shorts, yanking them down his hips. His cock sprang free, already surging, veins corded thickly beneath the skin, rapidly engorging to its monstrous, intimidating size, thick and heavy. "Fuck this ass," Lena demanded, turning, presenting her legendary, sculpted rear – high, round, the deep cleft beckoning. She reached back, spreading her cheeks roughly, exposing her tight, dark pucker. "Wreck it. Like last night. Need to feel you tear me open." She spat onto her palm, then slicked the broad, purple head of his cock, already leaking pre-cum. "Shove it in, Papi. Now!"
Bruce needed no more urging. The tension of the morning, the fear for his sons, the sheer overwhelming energy demanded violent release. He gripped her hips hard, the muscles taut under his fingers. He guided the slicked head to her tight rosette, pressing firmly. Lena braced, pushing back. "YES! FUCKING DO IT!" she screamed.
He surged forward, hips driving. The thick, flared head breached her resistance with a brutal, tearing stretch. Lena’s cry was raw, guttural, a mix of agony and ecstasy. "OH FUCK! TEARING ME! YES!" Inch by agonizing inch, he forced his immense girth into her gripping rectum, her inner muscles clenching spasmodically, trying to repel the invasion. The wet, obscene sound of stretching flesh filled the gym. Bruce grunted, the intense heat and friction incredible. He bottomed out, balls-deep, his pelvis slamming against her ass cheeks. Lena shuddered violently, gasping. "FULL! SO FUCKING FULL OF DICK! WRECKED!" She rolled her hips, grinding down on him, milking his shaft with her clenched passage.
Jasmine was there instantly. "That’s my title, asshole!" she growled playfully, but her green eyes burned with lust. She knelt behind Lena, grabbing handfuls of her ass cheeks, spreading them wider to watch Bruce’s thick base pulse within the stretched hole. "Look at that shithole swallow it!" Jasmine leaned forward, biting Lena’s shoulder. "Take that giant cock, cunt! Milk it dry!" Her free hand snaked between Lena’s legs, plunging two fingers knuckle-deep into her dripping cunt. "Feel how wet your pussy is while he destroys your ass, bitch?" Jasmine fucked her fingers hard and fast, curling them upwards.
Bruce needed no encouragement. He gripped Lena’s hips tighter, pulling her up until only the head remained buried, then slammed her back down with devastating force."UNGH! FUCK!" Lena screamed, her body jolting. He set a brutal, pounding rhythm. Wet, meaty smacks echoed sharply through the gym as his pelvis hammered against Lena’s ass. Each thrust drove her forward onto Jasmine’s hand. "HARDER! RAM IT! BREAK MY FUCKING ASSHOLE!" Lena shrieked, her voice ragged. Her breasts bounced wildly, sweat slicking her back.
The other wives watched, arousal palpable. Camille approached, her dark eyes fixed on the point of joining. "That’s it, Bruce," she breathed, her voice thick. "Fuck her ass raw. Stretch that perfect hole wide open." Her hand stroked his sweat-slicked back. Mystique’s hand slid beneath her own waistband. Ketut watched, fascinated, trying to see the colors in Bruce’s eyes as he fucked. Sophia observed Lena’s face, mesmerized by the ecstasy-pain. Erika bit her lip, her pale cheeks flushed. Priya and Elara stood close together, Priya’s breathing shallow, Elara’s analytical gaze taking in the mechanics, the raw biology on display.
Bruce felt the familiar pressure coiling, unstoppable. Lena’s ass was a furnace, her cries and Jasmine’s relentless assault pushing him. "I'M CUMMING!" Lena shrieked, her body locking, her asshole clamping down in a vice-like spasm around his pounding cock. "FUCK! CUMMING FROM MY ASS! OH GOD!" Her rectum pulsed rhythmically, milking him fiercely.
Her climax triggered his release – a torrent of dry, electric sensation. With a guttural roar, Bruce slammed her down hard one final time, grinding deep as wave after wave of pure, violent orgasm ripped through him. His cock pulsed violently within her clutching passage, flooding her with sensation but no fluid. Lena screamed, convulsing, her body jerking uncontrollably. He held her impaled, shuddering, as the aftershocks subsided. Slowly, he pulled out. Lena’s asshole gaped obscenely, reddened and stretched wide. She collapsed forward onto Jasmine, gasping, utterly spent. "Fuuuuck," she slurred.
Before Lena’s trembling subsided, Jasmine pushed her aside. "My turn, Papi," she declared, her voice thick with lust. She turned, presenting her incredible ass – high, round, truly breathtaking. She pushed her dark cheeks apart, exposing her tight, dark pucker. "Fuck this black asshole raw. Show Lena who owns the crown." She spat onto his cock, still slick with Lena’s juices, and rubbed it over his broad head. "Split me open."
Bruce grabbed her hips. The need to dominate, to claim, surged. He pressed the slicked head against her tight entrance. Jasmine pushed back hard, forcing the breach. "OH SHIT! TEARING! YES!" she hissed, her knuckles white as she braced against the padded post. He pushed relentlessly, feeling her tight ring yield, stretch, burn around the invading girth. Inch by agonizing inch, he sank into her clutching rectum, her gasp turning into a low, continuous moan of pure submission. "Yes... wreck my shithole... fill it, Daddy..."
He bottomed out, her incredible heat enveloping him. Then he fucked her. Harder, deeper than Lena. Piston-like thrusts hammered into her, the sharp, wet smack of his pelvis pounding against her perfect ass echoing like gunshots. Her body jolted forward with each plunge, her breasts swinging, her cries escalating into piercing shrieks. "RAM IT! BREAK ME! FUCK! DESTROY THIS ASS!" Ketut, watching intently, leaned in and spat directly onto the point where Bruce’s thick shaft disappeared into Jasmine’s stretched hole. The saliva mixed with juices, slicking the brutal penetration. "Make her scream louder, Bruce," Ketut urged, her hand sliding down to rub Jasmine’s clit frantically. Jasmine’s whole body tightened, her ass clamping down like a vise. "CUMMING! CUMMING FROM MY ASS! OH FUCKING GOD!" she howled, her rectum milking Bruce’s cock violently.
Again, her climax ripped a dry, volcanic eruption from him. He roared, slamming her down hard one final time, grinding deep as the sensation flooded her channel. He pulled out slowly. Jasmine’s gaping asshole pulsed, reddened and slick, utterly ravaged. She slumped forward against the post, gasping, her incredible ass trembling. Sweat dripped from Bruce’s brow. The surge still hummed, the primal need barely dented. His gaze, swirling intensely, locked onto Camille. His first wife. His anchor. Her dark eyes met his, burning with decades of shared passion and a fierce, answering hunger. She stepped forward, her confidence unwavering. The other wives watched, breathless,