Chapter 77: The UN Liaison's Pitch
The silence after the satellite call didn’t last. It was replaced by a low, humming tension that vibrated through the villa like a struck bell. The wives moved through the day with a focused energy. Camille and Lena inventoried supplies. Astrid and Jasmine walked the perimeter of the cliffside property, their eyes sharp. Ketut and Sari spoke in low, rapid Balinese with the staff, ensuring loyalty was absolute. The deep ones, Asherah, Nyxara, and Lykela, simply watched the horizon, their alien senses tuned to threats from both land and sea.
Bruce spent the afternoon in the villa’s study, a room of dark teak and old paper. He wasn’t planning. He was feeling. He let his consciousness, that strange new faculty that was less thought and more a visceral awareness of the island, seep into the stone beneath him, into the roots of the banyan trees, into the coral reefs fringing the coast. He was setting a boundary. Not with fences or guns, but with intent. The air around the villa, for a mile in every direction, grew thick, resistant. It wasn’t a wall. It was a suggestion, whispered to reality itself, that those without welcome should find the way suddenly difficult, the instruments confused, the will to proceed sapped.
It was dusk when the vibration in the air changed. Not from within, but from without. A persistent, mechanical thrum that grated against the natural symphony of waves and wind.
On the western horizon, a black speck resolved into a sleek, civilian-model helicopter. It flew with purpose, directly toward the villa.
Bruce stood from the desk and walked out onto the main terrace. One by one, his wives joined him, materializing from doorways and staircases, a silent tribunal assembling in the fading gold light. They watched the chopper approach. It was white, unmarked, expensive. Not military. Softer. More diplomacy, Bruce assumed. He groaned.
“They don’t listen,” Lena muttered, crossing her arms.
“They listen,” Camille said, her voice tight. “They just don’t like what they hear.”
The helicopter slowed as it neared the invisible perimeter. It hovered, wobbled slightly as if hitting turbulence in clear air, and then held its position. The thrumming of its blades was an insult to the sunset.
The satellite phone on the side table rang. Bruce picked it up, put it on speaker.
“Hello, Mr. Varner.” A woman’s voice, accented, smooth as aged whiskey, yet with a thread of strain. “My name is Elara Costa. I am a… representative. I have come to talk.”
Bruce looked at his wives, then at the stationary aircraft. “Turn around and go home. I made my intentions clear.”
“I am sorry,” the voice came back, the strain more pronounced. “I simply cannot go without speaking to you. There is a… barrier. My pilot cannot proceed.”
Bruce sighed, a long, weary exhalation. He closed his eyes for a second, and on the terrace, Asherah tilted her head, feeling the shift in the pressure of the world. “Very well.”
He opened his eyes. The hazel swirls within them seemed to churn for a moment. He focused on the helicopter, on the woman’s voice, and reluctantly peeled back the layer of resistance he’d woven. It was a localized, precise lowering. A gate opened in the air.
“You may enter now.”
The helicopter surged forward, the pilot clearly seizing the sudden opening. It circled once, then descended toward the flat, manicured lawn to the side of the villa. The downdraft whipped the women’s hair and sent petals from the frangipani trees swirling in a frantic dance.
The engine cut, the blades slowed to a lazy rotation. The door slid open.
Bruce was unsurprised to find an incredibly attractive woman stepping out, ducking her head. She was tall, with the athletic grace of a dancer, dressed in a tailored cream linen suit that did nothing to hide the spectacular curves beneath. Her hair was a cascade of chestnut waves, her skin a warm olive tone. Her face was a masterpiece of Brazilian beauty—full lips, high cheekbones, and eyes of a startling, deep blue that seemed to capture the last of the twilight. She was, objectively, breathtaking.
Then her composure cracked. Her eyes, scanning the group on the terrace, landed on Nyxara and Lykela, who stood slightly apart, their violet, star-speckled skin glowing in the gloom, their silver eyes reflecting the helicopter’s navigation lights. The woman, Elara, stopped dead. Her professional mask slipped, revealing a flash of pure, primal shock. This was not in any briefing.
She recovered, smoothing her suit jacket, and walked toward the terrace, her heels sinking slightly into the grass. The pilot remained in his seat, eyes forward, pretending to be part of the machine.
Elara stopped at the base of the terrace steps, looking up at Bruce and the array of women behind him—a collection of human and divine beauty that was utterly disarming. She cleared her throat.
“Mr. Varner. Thank you for permitting our landing. I am Elara Costa, a liaison appointed by the unified security council.”
Bruce didn’t move. He leaned against the balustrade, his gaze flat. “So they sent you because you are beautiful,” he stated, his voice devoid of warmth. “They clearly know my wives. And you’re expendable.”
The bluntness was a physical blow. Elara flinched, but then, remarkably, she nodded. A sad, knowing smile touched her perfect lips. “That is true. And I apologize for disturbing your peace. But if I made no contact with you, my life, and the pilot’s, were forfeit. They would have considered the mission a failure, and the assets… liquidated.”
A cold silence followed. Camille’s hand found Bruce’s arm, her fingers tightening.
“They’d kill you for turning back?” Lena asked, her tone skeptical.
“Not for turning back,” Elara said, her blue eyes meeting Bruce’s. “For failing. They have others like me. Trained, polished, kept for… delicate negotiations. They gambled that my appearance might grant me an audience where soldiers would not. They were correct, it seems.” She glanced again at the deep goddesses, awe still in her eyes. “Though their intelligence is profoundly incomplete.”
“What do you want?” Bruce’s question was a low rumble.
“A dialogue. A point of contact. Assurances that your… activities… will not destabilize the global order. They are terrified, Mr. Varner. Terrified men with immense power are the most dangerous creatures on earth. I am here to offer a pressure valve. Me. You can report anything you wish through me. It gives them the illusion of control, of having a line into your world. It might stay their hand from more desperate measures.”
“And what do you get?” Camille asked.
Elara’s shoulders slumped, just a fraction. “I get to live. And if I am very, very lucky, I might not have to go back.”
Bruce studied her. He saw the truth in her eyes, the weary calculation of a prized possession who knew her own shelf life. He also saw the raw, animal fear she was suppressing. He pushed his consciousness toward her, just a brush. No lies. Only a desperate, survivalist honesty, and a flicker of something else—a curiosity, a buried spark that had not yet been extinguished by her handlers.
“You stay,” Bruce said, the decision made. “The pilot leaves. Now. He reports that you are engaged in negotiations. That will buy you time.”
Elara’s breath hitched. “And… after that?”
“That depends on you.” He turned to Lena. “Get her something else to wear. That suit is a uniform.”
As Lena led a stunned Elara into the villa, Bruce nodded to the pilot. The man needed no further instruction; he fired up the engine, the sound shattering the tense quiet once more. The helicopter lifted off, banked, and sped back toward the horizon, a retreating insect.
The group on the terrace watched it go.
“This is a complication,” Astrid stated.
“She’s a spy,” Jasmine said.
“She’s a victim,” Sari countered softly.
“She’s both,” Bruce said, his eyes on the door where Elara had disappeared. “And now she’s here.”
Later, the villa was a study in subdued tension. Elara had been given a guest room, had changed into a simple sundress provided by Lena, and now sat in the main living area, looking profoundly out of place. The wives moved around her, a coordinated ecosystem she didn’t understand. Dinner was a quiet affair. Elara picked at her food, her eyes constantly drawn to the deep ones, to Bali whose mere presence seemed to bend the light, to the easy, physical closeness all the women shared with Bruce.
The air was thick with unasked questions.
After dinner, Bruce stood. “Elara. Walk with me.”
She followed him out onto the terrace, now lit by torches and a massive, low-hanging moon. The ocean roared below, a constant reminder of power.
“You understand the situation you’re in,” Bruce began, not looking at her.
“I believe so.”
“You’re not a guest. You’re a hostage to fortune. Your value to them is your connection to me. Your value to me is your usefulness. And your survival.”
“I understand.”
He turned to her then, his swirling eyes capturing the torchlight. “You need to understand more. You need to see what you’re trying to liaise with.”
He reached out and took her hand. His touch was electric, not with romance, but with a current of pure, terrifying potency. She gasped.
“Do not speak,” he said, and led her inside, not to the guest wing, but to the master suite, a vast chamber open to the night air. The wives were already there, arrayed around the room, on chairs, on the edge of the bed, watching. Camille. Lena. Ketut. All of them. The deep ones stood by the open balcony, their forms silhouetted against the moonlit sea.
It was not a seduction. It was an induction.
“Watch,” Bruce said to Elara, releasing her hand. He walked to the center of the room, where Camille stood.
He didn’t speak to his wife. He simply looked at her, and a current of understanding passed between them. Camille’s breath quickened. She stepped forward, her eyes never leaving his, and sank to her knees before him. Her hands went to the tie of his linen pants. With deliberate, worshipful slowness, she undid them, letting the fabric fall away.
His cock, already half-hard, sprang free, thick and heavy in the torchlight. Elara’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a sound. The sheer, impossible size of him was a biological shock. The stories, the whispers, had not done it justice.
Camille didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward, her full lips parting, and took the massive head into her mouth. She couldn’t take more than a few inches, but she worked what she could with a desperate, hungry passion, her tongue swirling around the crown, her cheeks hollowing. She moaned around him, the vibration making his thighs tense.
“That’s it, mi amor,” Bruce growled, his hand tangling in her dark hair. “Get it wet for me. Get it ready.”
After a minute, he pulled her off. A string of saliva connected her lips to his glistening cock. He turned her around, bending her over the back of a low divan. He pushed her sundress up around her waist, revealing her perfect, rounded ass, now his completely. He didn’t bother with foreplay. He positioned the broad head at her entrance, already slick from her arousal and her mouth.
“You see this, Elara?” Bruce said, his voice rough. “This is what they want reports on. Tell them.”
He drove forward, burying himself in Camille’s tight, welcoming heat in one relentless thrust.
Camille screamed, a sound of pure, shattered pleasure, her fingers clawing at the fabric of the divan. Elara stumbled back a step, her legs weak. She could see everything—the impossible stretch, the way Camille’s body was forced to accommodate him, the deep, rhythmic slap of his hips against her ass.
Bruce fucked Camille with a brutal, possessive pace, each stroke driving the divan across the polished floor. He was claiming not just his wife, but the room, the night, his own authority. Camille was sobbing, chanting his name, her body convulsing in orgasm within minutes, but he didn’t stop. He used her climax, fucking her through it, making it last, making it a public spectacle of his power.
When he finally pulled out, Camille collapsed, boneless and dripping. He turned, his cock gleaming wet and proud.
“Lena,” he said.
The sombra was already moving. She didn’t kneel. She walked to him, turned, and backed into him, guiding him to her other entrance. She reached behind herself, holding his shaft, and pressed the head against her tight, rosebud asshole.
“This one’s for the spies, Bruce,” she whispered, loud enough for Elara to hear, and then she pushed back, impaling her ass on him with a sharp, controlled motion.
Elara watched, horrified and mesmerized, as Lena took him anally, her face a mask of intense concentration that melted into ecstasy. The fit was even tighter, the obscenity more profound. Bruce’s hands gripped Lena’s tiny waist, holding her still as he pistoned into her from behind, the wet, filthy sounds of the act filling the silent room.
One by one, they came to him. Ketut, with her worshipful eyes, taking him on the floor. Sari, whose pussy gushed so profusely at the first touch of his head that it sounded like pouring rain, her squirting orgasm drenching his thighs. Jasmine and Astrid together, one riding his cock while the other pressed her cunt against the first’s ass, sharing the penetration in a dizzying display.
The deep ones joined, not as spectators but as participants. Nyxara knelt before Anya, who was riding Bruce, and licked her clit with her long, pointed tongue, sending the young reporter into a shrieking frenzy. Lykela pressed her cool, starry body against Elara, not threatening, just making her feel the radiant heat and power in the room. “This is the god you were sent to manage,” Lykela whispered, her silver eyes inches from Elara’s terrified blue ones.
Finally, it was Bali, his mountain-born wife, who approached. The others made space. Bruce, still impossibly hard, sat on the edge of the rumpled bed. Bali, with her amethyst eyes and impossible curves, straddled him, sinking down onto his shaft with a serene, powerful grace that made the others look like amateurs. She moved on him, a slow, undulating wave, her internal muscles milking him with a knowledge that was geologic.
Bruce’s head fell back, a roar building in his chest. He was close.
His eyes, hazed with pleasure, found Elara’s across the room. She was pressed against the wall, her face pale, her dress damp with sweat and the ambient humidity of sex. She had seen it all. The raw, unfiltered truth of what he was, what his life entailed.
“Elara,” he grunted, the word a command.
She froze.
“Come here.”
Trembling, she obeyed. She walked through the tangle of spent, beautiful women, her eyes fixed on his. She stopped before him, where Bali still rose and fell, connected to him.
“Tell me what you are,” he demanded, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his climax.
“I… I am a liaison,” she whispered.
“No.” His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, pulling her closer. His touch burned. “After what you’ve seen. What are you?”
She looked at the god, at the goddess impaled upon him, at the room full of women who lived in this reality. The last of her professional detachment crumbled. The spark he had seen earlier ignited.
“I am… nothing,” she breathed, awe and terror in her voice. “I am a messenger who has seen the message made flesh. I am a sacrifice they sent to the altar.”
Bruce held her gaze. “Yes.”
He pulled her down, not onto his cock, but to her knees beside the bed. He pushed her head toward where his body joined with Bali’s. “And now you worship. You tell your masters this is what you saw. You tell them with your mouth.”
Elara, her mind broken open, didn’t hesitate. She pressed her face into the sweat-slicked junction of their bodies. She licked the stretched, glistening flesh where Bruce disappeared into Bali. She tasted salt, and sex, and something else—ozone, mineral, power. She opened her mouth and took as much of Bruce’s shaft as she could alongside Bali’s body, her tongue working, her tears mixing with the fluids on her face.
That was the final trigger. With a shout that shook the torches in their sconces, Bruce came. His release was a flood into Bali, who threw her head back and screamed, her own climax triggering like a seismic event. Elara felt the heat, the pulse, the overwhelming force of it against her tongue, her cheek.
When it was over, silence rushed back in, broken only by ragged breathing. Elara slumped to the floor, spent and forever changed. Bruce gently lifted Bali off him and stood, his body still radiating a dangerous energy. He looked down at the beautiful Brazilian woman, now marked, claimed by the reality she’d been sent to probe.
“Now,” Bruce said, his voice calm once more. “You have your report. You can tell them you made contact. You can tell them everything you saw. And you can tell them that the next person they send, for any reason, will not return at all.”
Elara looked up at him, her deep blue eyes wide, reflecting not just fear, but a shattered awe. She had come as a spy. She would leave as a witness. And she understood, in her marrow, that there was no going back to her old life. The gate had closed behind her the moment the helicopter flew away.
The gate had closed behind her the moment the helicopter flew away.
Elara did not move from the floor. She remained on her knees, the taste of him and of Bali still sharp on her tongue, a sacramental burn. The room slowly settled around her. Soft sighs replaced cries. The deep ones helped the terrestrial wives to their feet, their touches gentle now, cleansing. No one spoke to Elara. They simply moved around her as if she were a piece of furniture that had always been there, which was somehow more integrating than any forced welcome.
Camille, with a tired, knowing smile, handed her a damp cloth. Elara took it numbly, wiping her face. The fabric came away stained.
“The first time is always a shock to the system,” Camille said, her voice low and hoarse. “It passes. You’ll either break or you’ll bend. But you won’t be what you were.”
Elara could only nod. Her body felt hollowed out, rebooted. The professional calibrations in her mind, all her training in assessment and manipulation, had been scorched away by sensory overload. What remained was raw nerve and a single, glaring truth: the world she’d known was a painted backdrop. This was the messy, pulsing stage behind it.
Bruce watched the quiet recovery from the doorway, a silent patriarch surveying his domain. Then, a ripple went through the room. It started with Ketut, who swayed on her feet, her near-black eyes fluttering. She reached for Sari, but before their fingers could touch, her legs gave way. Sari caught her, but then her own knees buckled.
Like dominoes, they fell.
Not violently. Not in pain. It was a graceful, sudden draining. Jasmine slumped onto the divan. Astrid slid down the wall, her blond hair a pale curtain over her face. Camille’s eyes rolled back as she collapsed onto the rug. Lena, ever the sombra, made it two steps toward Bruce before folding silently. Even the deep ones, Asherah and Nyxara, sank to the floor, their bioluminescence dimming, their forms seeming to melt into the shadows. Lykela simply curled onto her side, asleep mid-breath.
In seconds, the room was a landscape of stunning, unconscious women. The only sound was the distant ocean and Elara’s own ragged breath.
Bruce didn’t rush to them. He observed, his head tilted. He could feel it—a deep, sudden depletion in the villa’s energy field. They were not harmed. They were exhausted, their human and divine systems overwhelmed by the massive output of power he had unleashed and shared. It was a feedback loop, a collective crash after an extreme high. They would sleep, and they would wake renewed. They were batteries he had fully drained.
He stepped carefully over a tangle of limbs, walked to a carved cabinet, and retrieved a bottle of bourbon and a pack of cigarettes. He didn’t look back at Elara. He pushed open the terrace door and vanished into the indigo night.
Elara was left alone in the temple of fallen goddesses. The silence was absolute, profound. She pulled herself up, her legs trembling, and wrapped her arms around herself. The sundress felt alien. She felt alien. She looked from one serene, sleeping face to another, this impossible harem, and a cold, lonely terror seized her. She was an invasive species here. A contaminant.
She needed air that didn’t smell of sex and power.
She followed him.
The terrace was vast, bathed in moonlight so bright it cast sharp, black shadows. Bruce stood at the far stone railing, his back to her, a glass of amber liquid in one hand, a cigarette glowing in the other. The sea wind ruffled the linen of his pants. He seemed a part of the cliff itself.
She approached, the marble cool under her bare feet. He didn’t turn.
“Bruce.”
He took a drag, exhaled a plume of smoke that was ripped away by the wind. “Julianna.”
The use of her real name, the one buried deep in her file, the one even her handlers rarely used, hit her like a physical blow. Of course he knew. He knew everything the moment she landed.