Chapter 143: Blacked by Constructs
The door to the playroom sighed shut, sealing them in a world of echoing whispers and reflective surfaces. Bruce leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed, a faint smile playing on his lips. Anya and Freya stood in the center of the black marble floor, hand in hand, their nude bodies like complementary works of art under the low, ambient light.
“You just watch, okay?” Anya said, her violet eyes gleaming with a mix of shyness and daring. “We’ve been practicing.”
“Practicing how to drive you out of your fucking mind,” Freya added, her voice a husky promise. She pushed her younger sister gently, and Anya stumbled back onto a large, low divan covered in dark fur.
What followed was not hesitant exploration, but a performance of deep, intimate knowledge. Freya knelt between Anya’s thighs, her blonde hair a curtain against Anya’s pale skin. She didn’t start slow. She pressed her mouth against Anya’s pussy and licked a hard, flat stripe from her opening to her clit. Anya gasped, her back arching, her small hands fisting in the fur.
“God, yes, right there,” Anya whimpered.
Freya ate her with a focused, relentless intensity. Her tongue speared inside, fucking her with quick, shallow thrusts before flattening to circle her clit. The wet, slick sounds filled the room. Anya’s heels dug into Freya’s back, urging her on. “Taste that, you fucking bitch,” Anya moaned, her hips grinding up. “That’s all for you.”
Bruce watched, his cock thickening against his thigh. The sight of Freya’s face buried in her sister’s cunt, the raw carnality of it, was intensely hot. But it was the love underpinning it, the absolute trust, that made his chest ache.
Anya came with a shattered cry, her body rigid. Freya lapped at her through the spasms, drinking her down before crawling up her body to kiss her, sharing her own flavor. They kissed deeply, messily.
Then Anya pushed Freya onto her back. “My turn,” she murmured, her voice dripping with intent. She worshipped Freya’s thick, heavy thighs with kisses and bites before burying her face in the lush blonde curls. Freya’s reactions were louder, more profane.
“Oh fuck, Anya, suck my clit! Yes! Just like that, you perfect little cunt!” Freya’s hands gripped Anya’s dark hair, guiding her. Anya obeyed, sucking the swollen nub between her lips, humming as she slid two, then three fingers deep into Freya’s soaking channel. The squelching noise of her fist fucking her sister was obscenely loud.
Bruce’s breath hitched. This was theirs, a sisterly sacrament, and he was the honored witness.
As Freya bucked and screamed through her climax, Anya looked over at Bruce, her violet eyes glazed but sharp. “Now the main event,” she panted. She raised a hand, and the air in the room shivered. Her power, creation itself, coiled and pulsed.
From the shadows of the room, four forms coalesced. They solidified into men, each one a masterpiece of muscular human architecture, skin the deep, rich hue of polished ebony. They were expressionless, perfectly still, their eyes holding a blank, waiting light. And between their legs, their cocks were colossal—thick as a wrist and long, resting heavily against powerful thighs, the heads dark and broad.
“You wanna see them fuck us?” Freya asked, rising to her knees, her heavy breasts swaying. She was breathless, her green eyes locked on Bruce. “You wanna see these big black cocks stretch your little wives wide open?”
A fever dream heat flooded Bruce’s veins. He gave a single, slow nod.
Anya snapped her fingers. The constructs moved with smooth, silent purpose. Two approached Freya. One behind her, his massive hands spanning her waist. The other in front, his cock jutting toward her face. She didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward and took the head into her mouth, sucking noisily, her cheeks hollowing. At the same time, the construct behind her positioned his thick crown at her dripping entrance.
“Do it,” Bruce commanded, his voice rough.
The construct slammed home in one brutal stroke, burying every inch into Freya’s tight channel. She screamed around the cock in her mouth, her eyes rolling back. He set a relentless, pounding rhythm, each drive making her body jerk forward onto the other cock, fucking her face in tandem with her cunt.
The other two constructs moved to Anya. She was on her hands and knees, her incredible ass high in the air. One knelt behind her, lining up. The other stood over her, his cock nudging her lips. She looked at Bruce, a challenge in her eyes, and opened her mouth.
The one behind her thrust. Anya’s small body lurched, a sharp cry torn from her as she was impaled on the monstrous girth. It was a vicious stretch, a breathtaking invasion. She recovered, taking the head of the other into her mouth, gagging slightly before relaxing her throat, taking him deeper.
The room became a symphony of raw, physical dominance. The rhythmic, meaty slaps of hips against ass. The choked gags and wet sucks of deep throating. Freya’s incessant, garbled moans. The sharp, high sounds being punched from Anya’s small frame with every piston-like thrust.
Bruce stroked himself, his own cock a heavy, aching weight in his hand, mesmerized by the obscene spectacle. His wives, his beautiful, powerful goddesses, being utterly and completely ravaged by creations of their own design. It was surrender and control in one.
The door cracked open. Susan stood there, frozen, her golden hair haloed by the hallway light. She’d been looking for Bruce, drawn by the cacophony. Her eyes widened, taking in the scene: Freya double-penetrated, drool slicking her chin; Anya being fucked doggystyle so hard her small breasts swung violently, a second cock cramming her mouth.
Anya saw her. Even with her mouth full, her eyes lit up. She pulled off the cock with a wet pop. “Susan! Get in here!” she gasped, before the construct behind her hiltted himself again, making her cry out. “Let them… oh god… let them welcome you too!”
One of the constructs fucking Freya disengaged. He turned, his enormous, slick cock glistening with her juices, and took a step toward the door. Susan didn’t flee. She stood her ground, her freckles stark against her suddenly pale skin, but a fire was kindling in her eyes—the same fire that had faced the townsfolk of Mejis.
Bruce met her gaze. “Your choice,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise. “Always.”
The construct stopped before her. It was inhumanly beautiful and utterly terrifying. Susan’s eyes dropped to the monstrous erection level with her navel. She licked her lips. The memory of the springs, of being so thoroughly accepted, of belonging, warred with the sheer, brutal scale of this.
Slowly, her hands came up. She wrapped her fingers around the hot, iron-hard shaft. It pulsed in her grip. She looked past it, to Anya’s encouraging, pleasure-wrecked face, to Freya’s ecstatic grin, to Bruce’s approving nod.
“Fuck it,” Susan whispered, a gunslinger’s daughter to the last.
She guided the head to the entrance of her trousers, fumbling with the fastening. Anya, seeing her struggle, waved a hand. Susan’s clothes simply vanished, dissolving into motes of light. Now naked, Susan felt the broad, blunt tip press against her folds. She was wet—terrified, but wet.
“Do you want it?” Bruce asked.
“Yes,” she hissed.
He nodded to the construct. It pushed forward.
Susan’s mouth fell open in a silent scream as the impossible width began to split her open. It was an excruciating, breathtaking stretch, a feeling of being remade from the inside out. He didn’t stop. He pushed relentlessly, inch by devastating inch, until his hips were flush against her thighs, his entire colossal length buried in her quivering cunt.
“Holy gods,” she finally gasped, the air rushing back into her lungs. The feeling of absolute fullness was maddening. Overwhelming.
The construct began to move. Short, deep strokes that shook her entire body. Susan staggered, and the entity held her up, its hands clamping on her hips, using her for its pleasure. Each thrust was a seismic event in her core. She could only take it, her head thrown back, a string of ragged, Mid-World curses and pleas falling from her lips.
Bruce finally moved from the wall. He walked to Anya, who was still taking a pounding from behind. He fisted a hand in her hair, pulling her head back. “You brilliant, filthy girl,” he growled, and shoved his cock into her wet, open mouth. She suckled him hungrily, her eyes fluttering in bliss, as the construct beneath her continued to pound her pussy into oblivion.
The room was a tapestry of sweat and sex and power. Freya, now fucking her own mouth on one cock while another ravaged her cunt. Anya, gagging on her husband’s length while being split open from behind. And Susan, pinned and pumping on a black shaft as thick as her wrist, her freckled skin flushing a deep, fevered red, her old world burning away in the crucible of this new, raw belonging.
It couldn’t last forever. Freya was the first to break, her body seizing as a cataclysmic orgasm ripped through her, triggering the construct in her mouth to unleash a flood of salty release down her throat. The one in her cunt followed, pumping jet after jet of hot seed deep into her womb.
The chain reaction began. Anya screamed around Bruce’s cock as her own climax hit, her tight channel milking the construct, which then erupted inside her. Bruce pulled from her mouth and spent himself across her face and breasts with a guttural shout.
Susan felt the throbbing within her intensify. The construct gripping her hips slammed home one final time and held, pulsing. She felt the scalding, impossible flood fill her, a cascading rush that triggered her own, shattering release. Her legs gave way, but the construct held her upright until it was finished, depositing its fabricated essence deep within her.
Silence, but for the ragged sound of breathing.
The four constructs dissolved into shimmering dust, leaving the three women and Bruce in the sudden quiet. Anya and Freya collapsed together on the divan, a tangled, sticky, satisfied heap. Susan slid to the floor, legs splayed, a slow trickle leaking from her well-used pussy.
Bruce went to her first, kneeling, brushing sweat-damped hair from her forehead. “Welcome to the family,” he said, his voice soft.
Susan looked up at him, then at the sisters, a weary, sated, and utterly fearless smile spreading across her face. “Just another Tuesday, then?” she rasped.
From down the hall, the distant, joyful laugh of a child echoed. Life, in all its messy, desperate, beautiful forms, went on.
Life, in all its messy, desperate, beautiful forms, went on.
Bruce lifted Susan, her body limp and slick against his, and carried her to the divan. He laid her beside the entwined sisters, their breathing slowly settling into a synced rhythm. The mirrored walls reflected a tableau of exhausted, gleaming flesh and contented smiles. Freya reached out a languid hand, her fingers tracing the sticky trails on Anya’s stomach.
“You made them too real, you know,” Freya murmured, her voice hoarse. “The way they throbbed when they came. Fuck.”
Anya smiled, a little wicked, a little proud. “Only the best for my sister. And my sister-wife.” She turned her head to look at Susan. “You okay?”
Susan let out a long, shaky breath that was almost a laugh. “I feel… rearranged.” She shifted, wincing slightly. “In a good way. A very good way.” She met Bruce’s eyes. “Thank you for not stopping it.”
“You’re a grown woman,” Bruce said, sitting on the edge of the fur, a hand resting on each of their bodies—a point of contact, a grounding. “This is what we are. It’s not always this… theatrical. But the hunger is always real.”
The door clicked open again. Camille stood there, dressed in a simple silk robe, a knowing eyebrow arched. She took in the scene: the spent women, the lingering scent of sex and creation, the satisfied calm on her husband’s face.
“I heard the commotion,” she said, stepping inside. “And felt the power spike. Anya, sweetheart, the entire west wing hummed.” Her tone wasn’t accusatory, but matter-of-fact. This was the management of their unique household.
“Sorry, Cami,” Anya said, not sounding sorry at all. She stretched, a feline motion that made her small breasts peak. “We were just… welcoming Susan properly. Again.”
“I can see that.” Camille walked over, her eyes soft as she looked at Susan. “And you, querida? Still with us?”
“Barely,” Susan grinned. “But I’m here.”
“Good.” Camille’s gaze then shifted to Bruce, her confidence a solid, warm presence in the room. “The kids are down. Rafael was asking for you before he drifted off. Said he had a dream about a big, silver turtle.”
Bruce nodded. The ordinary concerns of fatherhood existed in a strange, parallel lane to all this. He cherished both. “I’ll check on him.”
But he didn’t move just yet. The playroom’s energy was settling, the frantic heat cooling into a deep, communal closeness. He watched as Freya curled into Anya’s side, her blonde head on the younger woman’s shoulder. He saw Susan’s hand creep out to find Anya’s, their fingers linking. A new bond, forged in extremity.
This was his heart, scattered across bodies, beating in a dozen different rhythms that somehow found the same syncopated time.
“You know,” Susan said quietly into the hush, her Mid-World accent more pronounced in her weariness. “Where I’m from, something like this… it would be called witchcraft. And we’d all be ashes on a mesa.”
Anya turned her head, her violet eyes serious. “Here, it’s just family. The witchcraft part is optional.”
That drew a genuine laugh from everyone, a soft, rolling sound that seemed to cleanse the air.
Later, after Bruce had checked on the children—on Rafael, on little Roland, on all the sleeping faces in the gentle lamplight of the nursery—he returned to the master suite. The playroom had been cleared, the women having retreated to their own rooms or shared spaces. Camille was in their bed, reading a tablet, her glasses perched on her nose.
She looked up as he entered. “All quiet on the western front?”
“For now.” He slid into bed beside her, the cool sheets a contrast to the night’s earlier heat. “Today was a lot.”
“For her. For you.” She put the tablet aside and removed her glasses. “I remember my first few weeks. The sheer… scale of it all. The love, the sex, the power. It overwhelms the senses.” She touched his cheek. “You gave her a safe place to drown in it. That’s what she needed.”
He captured her hand, kissed her palm. “You saw it too? In the springs.”
“I felt it,” Camille corrected. “That hollow place in her. Not empty. Just… waiting to be filled with something real. Not a ghost.” She shifted closer, her curvy body aligning with his. “The constructs were a bold choice. Anya’s mind always goes to the spectacular.”
“It worked.”
“Oh, I know.” Camille’s hand drifted lower, under the sheet. Her fingers wrapped around him, finding him already half-hard. The memory, the residual energy, was still a live wire in his blood. “Seeing you watch… it does things to me,” she confessed, her voice a low thrum. “Knowing what you’re thinking. Knowing that immense power in you is calm, is sated, because your women are satisfied.”
She stroked him slowly, firmly. “My turn now,” she whispered. “No audience. No constructs. Just you. And the wife who remembers what you were like with just one cock, before the universe got involved.”
Her words were a different kind of magic. They stripped away the epic scale and brought him back to a simpler, foundational truth: her. He rolled over, settling between her thighs, which parted for him with a familiar, welcoming ease. She was already wet, her scent—warm and uniquely hers—filling his senses.
“Just you,” he echoed, and pushed into her.
It was not a claiming, but a homecoming. The fit was perfect, known, a deep slide into a heat that welcomed him without spectacle. He fucked her with a steady, driving rhythm, their eyes locked. Her legs locked around his back, her heels pressing into his ass, urging him deeper.
“This,” she gasped, her nails scoring his shoulders. “This is where it started. This is the root. Everything else… grows from this. Right here.”
Her words unraveled him. His pace faltered, became less controlled, more desperate. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in. “Camille.”
“I know.” She was climbing, her body tightening around him. “Give it to me. Fill me up, Bruce. Remind me.”
With a groan that was almost a sob, he plunged deep and came, a surge of pure, uncomplicated release that had nothing to do with godhood or Saiyan legacy. It was husband and wife. She cried out moments later, her climax a series of tight, fluttering pulses that milked him dry.
They lay tangled, slick with sweat, for a long time. Down the hall, in the room Susan now shared with Freya and Anya, there was the faint sound of whispering, then shared laughter. The sound was light, unburdened.
“They’re healing her,” Camille said softly.
“We all are,” Bruce replied, his hand spread over the warm skin of her stomach.
The mansion was quiet, a island of strange peace in a cosmos they were sworn to protect. In the darkness, Bruce felt not the weight of duty, but the profound, terrifying lightness of being exactly where he was meant to be. The narrative could turn tomorrow. A threat could emerge from the black between galaxies. But tonight, the only pulsing energy was the afterglow, and the only guardianship required was over the hearts beating in syncopated rhythm all around him.
Sleep, when it came, was deep and dreamless. Outside, the first hints of dawn began to bleed into the sky, painting the quiet ocean in shades of violet and rose. Another day awaited.