Chapter 159: Ass-Up Submission
Consciousness returned not as a sunrise, but as a slow tide of sensation. The first thing Bruce registered was warmth—a smooth, perfect warmth cradling the length of his softening cock. The second was the silent, echoing calm in his own mind, a clean hollow where his anxieties usually hummed. Ketut. She slept curled against him, her back to his chest, her ass nestled against his groin, one of his arms pinned beneath her. Her black hair tickled his nose, smelling of incense and deep, quiet earth.
Her empathy had been working even in sleep, a gentle siphon drawing off the dregs of his tension. But as he woke, so did his body’s baseline hunger. The warmth at his groin became a catalyst. Blood flowed, thickening him, lengthening him against the soft cleft of her ass. He grew hard in the space between two heartbeats, his rigid flesh trapped between her cheeks.
A soft, knowing murmur escaped her. She was awake. She pushed back, a deliberate, grinding rotation that made his breath hitch. He didn’t speak. He nuzzled her hair aside and pressed his lips to the nape of her neck. His free hand slid from her stomach down, through the coarse silk of her pubic hair, his fingers finding her slit. She was already wet, her folds puffy and slick with sleep arousal.
“You took too much,” he whispered into her skin, his voice rough with sleep. “Left me empty. Now I need to fill something up.”
She answered by lifting her top leg, hooking it over his, opening herself further. His fingers slid inside her easily, curling. But that wasn’t his destination. He withdrew his hand, brought his wet fingers to his mouth, then reached back to smear her own moisture over the tight pucker of her asshole. She shivered.
He shifted, sliding down her body, his cock springing free, smearing a wet line across her lower back. He kissed down her spine, each vertebra a shrine. When he reached the twin curves of her ass, he spread them with his hands, exposing her completely. In the grey pre-dawn light, she was opened like a dark, forbidden flower.
He didn’t ask. He leaned in and licked her.
A long, flat, wet stroke from the base of her pussy, over her perineum, directly across her clenched asshole. She jolted, a sharp gasp tearing from her. He did it again. And again. Lapping at her like a man dying of thirst, his tongue firm and relentless, circling the tight ring, then pressing the very tip against it, fucking it with shallow, insistent pushes.
“Bruce…” Her voice was a thin thread of need.
“Shhh. I’m cleansing my palate,” he growled against her flesh, the vibration making her tremble. He ate her ass with a devoted, filthy focus, slurping at her, his tongue delving as deep as the muscle would allow. He felt it begin to relax, to yield, to bloom under the onslaught. She was pushing back against his face now, her little moans a continuous song. He slid a finger down, through her dripping slit, gathering more of her wetness, and brought it back to circle her loosening hole. He pressed the tip of his finger against it. It resisted, then swallowed the first knuckle.
She cried out, her fists clenching the sheets.
He worked his finger in deeper, to the second knuckle, crooking it, stretching her. He added a second finger beside the first, his mouth still busy on her clit, sucking it hard as he stretched her open. The sounds were obscene—wet, squelching, intimate. Her body was slick with his saliva and her own juices.
“Please,” she begged, her composure shattered. “Please, I need it. I need your cock in my ass. Fuck me there. Stretch me open. Do it.”
He withdrew his fingers, leaving her empty and gaping slightly. He moved up, kneeling between her legs, his cock a heavy, veined pillar glistening with her taste. He guided the broad, flaring head to her violated hole. It nudged against the resistance.
“Now,” she demanded, her head twisted to look back at him, her dark eyes black with want. “Now.”
He pushed. The head popped past the tight ring of muscle, an impossible, burning stretch. She screamed, a sharp sound of pure sensation, her back arching. He held there, letting her adjust, watching her face contort in a rapture of pain and pleasure. Then, with a slow, relentless pressure, he sank deeper. Inch by impossible inch, he buried his monstrous cock in her ass until his hips were flush against her asscheeks, his balls tight against her soaked pussy lips.
He was fully sheathed in a scalding, velvet vise. She was panting, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “Move,” she choked out. “God, move.”
He began to pull back, the drag exquisite, then thrust forward. It was a brutal, claiming rhythm. Each stroke was a fight against her incredible tightness, a surrender he had to win. The bed rocked. She met each thrust with a desperate backward slam of her hips.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his hands digging into her hips. “That’s everything I couldn’t say. You want my raw feeling? There it is.”
“Yes! Give me the ugliest part! I want it!” she sobbed, her body accepting the brutal invasion, transforming it into a shared ecstasy.
He fucked her ass with a punishing, cathartic force. It was less about pleasure and more about exorcism, a physical scream. He could feel her empathy wrapping around the raw, thrusting animalism of the act, absorbing it, making it beautiful. Her inner muscles fluttered wildly around his shaft, a chaotic, welcoming rhythm.
His orgasm built like a fault line slipping. It was massive, tectonic. With a roar that was part agony, part triumph, he came, pumping wave after hot, thick wave deep into her bowels. The clenching of her orgasm followed, a sympathetic vibration that milked him dry, her own climax wracking her slender frame.
He collapsed over her, spent, still buried inside her. They lay like that, joined in the most forbidden way, breathing in ragged unison.
When he finally slipped out, she winced, a spent, happy sound. He gathered her, turned her to face him, and held her. No words. She placed her palm over his heart, her eyes reading the new, quieter landscape there. The storm had passed.
“Go to Susan,” she whispered finally, her voice hoarse. “She dreams of horses and fire. She needs to be reminded she’s here, now. With you.”
He kissed her, a tender seal on the violent intimacy, and left the bed.
He walked the halls naked, the cool air on his sweat-dried skin. The house was silent, the deep silence just before dawn. He came to a door of dark, polished oak, banded with iron like something from a medieval keep. Susan Delgado’s room.
He pushed it open. The air inside was different—hay, leather, and the faint, forever scent of woodsmoke. Moonlight streamed through a window, illuminating a rustic room of tapestries and simple, sturdy furniture. In the large four-poster bed, Susan slept on her side, a tangle of golden hair fanning across the pillow, one freckled arm resting atop a quilt. The sheet was low, revealing the generous swell of a breast, the nipple a pale pink in the gloom.
He stood watching her. The girl from Mejis, burned for a demon’s promise, resurrected by the mending of the Beam. She loved Roland still, a quiet, distant love like a kept pressed flower. But her heart, her living body, had chosen him. Chosen this. There was a fierceness in her that mirrored Susannah’s, but older, born of grass and gallows rather than concrete and resistance.
He approached. He didn’t wake her with touches. He simply knelt by the side of the bed, his face level with her hips. He hooked a finger in the waistband of her simple cotton drawers and pulled them down, over the curve of her ass, down her strong, rider’s thighs. She stirred, murmuring something that sounded like “Cuthbert.”
He didn’t hesitate. He buried his face between her legs.
His tongue was a hot, wet brand on her sleep-warm flesh. He licked her through the coarse, blonde curls, a broad, demanding stroke that made her jolt awake with a yelp.
“Christ! Who—?” Her hand flew down, grabbing a handful of his hair, pulling his head up. Her blue eyes, wide with alarm, found his in the dim light. The fear melted, replaced by a hot, immediate recognition. “Bruce.”
“Who else comes to steal you in the night?” he murmured, his breath hot on her wet lips.
“Demon,” she said, but her grip on his hair changed from pulling away to holding on. She spread her legs wider, an open invitation.
He went back to work. He ate her pussy with the same relentless focus he’d given Ketut, but the flavor was different—wildflower honey and salt. He licked and sucked her clit until her hips were canting off the bed, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. He slid two fingers inside her, finding her tight and clenching. She was so wet it spilled around his fingers.
“Oh, gods,” she moaned, her head thrashing. “Like that… yes…”
But he had a destination. He pulled his mouth away, trailing kisses down her inner thigh, then across the sensitive skin of her perineum. He lifted her leg, hooking it over his shoulder, opening her utterly. His tongue found the tight, wrinkled star of her ass. He lapped at it once, a questioning touch.
She froze. “Bruce… I’ve not…”
“I know,” he said, his voice dark with promise. “Tell me no and I stop.”
She was silent for a long moment, her body trembling. He could feel the battle within her—the proper girl from Hambry, the woman who’d died in fire, the goddess reborn in a new world. The new world won. “Do it,” she whispered, the words filled with terrified excitement. “Take me there.”
He needed no further encouragement. He spit directly onto her asshole, then used his thumb to smear the saliva around, pressing gently. He leaned in again, his tongue becoming a relentless, wet drill, fucking into her tightness, preparing her with a crude, profound intimacy. He worked her open with his mouth until she was sobbing with need, her fist in her own hair.
“Now,” she begged, her voice breaking. “For gods’ sake, now. Fuck my ass, Bruce. Make it yours.”
He rose up on his knees, his cock raging hard. He spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly, and guided the swollen head to her waiting entrance. He pressed. The resistance was profound, a virgin barrier in this most forbidden place. He pushed harder, his other hand holding her hip steady.
“Yes,” she hissed, her face buried in the pillow. “Break me open.”
With a final, firm thrust, he breached her. Her scream was muffled by the bedding, a wild, animal sound of pain and conquest. He sank deeper, slowly, feeling her body fight then yield, accommodate then cling. When he was fully seated, buried in a heat so intense it was blinding, he
He sank deeper, slowly, feeling her body fight then yield, accommodate then cling. When he was fully seated, buried in a heat so intense it was blinding, he remained still. Susan’s breath came in ragged, shuddering pulls against the quilt. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the bedsheet.
“Gods,” she finally gasped, the word choked. “It’s… it’s so full.”
“You take it so well,” he murmured, bending over her, pressing his chest to her sweat-slick back. He kissed her shoulder. “My brave girl from Mejis.” He began to move, a slow, initial withdrawal that made her cry out. The sensation was foreign, a profound stretching that skirted the edge of pain. He set a careful, deep rhythm, each thrust a measured conquest. Her body adjusted, the sharpness melting into a low, building fire. Her internal muscles fluttered, then squeezed, a reluctant welcome.
“Faster,” she begged, her voice muffled. “Please, I need it harder.”
He obliged, his hips snapping forward with more force. The sound was filthy, a wet, fleshy slap of skin against skin. He fucked her ass with a growing ruthlessness, each drive punching a sharp gasp from her lips. He reached around, his hand finding her clit, rough and demanding. She came suddenly, a violent, shuddering orgasm that clamped around his invading length, milking him. Her climax triggered his own. With a final, brutal thrust, he emptied himself deep into her, grunting her name into the smoky scent of her hair.
He collapsed beside her, spent. They lay in silence, the only sound their slowing breaths. After a long moment, she turned her head, her freckled cheek against the pillow. Her eyes were clear, the ghost of the fire gone from them. “That,” she said quietly, “was an anchor.”
“It was,” he agreed, kissing her forehead. He disentangled himself, the movement making her wince softly. He fetched a warm cloth from her basin, cleaned her gently, then himself. She watched him, a soft, sated smile on her lips. “Where now?” she asked.
“Two more anchors to check,” he said.
Her smile widened, knowing. “Give the twins my love.”
The hallway was cooler now, a pale pre-dawn light beginning to bleed through the high windows. His body was a symphony of pleasant aches, his mind quieted by the violent serenity of the last hours. He came to the door shared by Anya and Freya. It was slightly ajar, a sliver of golden lamplight painting the floor.
He pushed it open.
The sight stopped him in the doorway. They were on the large, low bed, both on their hands and knees, naked and facing the footboard. They had heard him coming. They waited. Their bodies, flawless and achingly young, were bathed in the warm light. Freya’s hair was a river of fire down her pale back; Anya’s a cascade of night. They looked back over their shoulders at him, their expressions a mix of sleepy invitation and pure, devouring hunger.
It was, perhaps, the most seductive sight he had ever witnessed. The perfect, ripe curves of their asses were lifted, offering. The silent understanding between them was a palpable force in the room. No words were needed. He entered, letting the door sigh shut behind him.
He went to Anya first, kneeling behind her trembling form. He leaned forward, his hands spreading the cool, perfect moons of her ass. He didn’t tease. He dragged his tongue in one long, wet stripe from the dripping slit of her pussy, up over the tight furl of her asshole. She cried out, a sharp, sweet sound. He did it again, and again, lapping at her with a focused hunger, burying his face in her until her thighs shook.
He then moved to Freya, repeating the act. Her taste was different—sweeter, like summer berries. She pushed back against his mouth with a guttural moan, her red hair swinging. He feasted on her, sucking her clit hard, spearing her pussy with his tongue before lavishing attention on her other, tighter hole. The room filled with the wet, obscene sounds of his worship and their gasped pleas.
He returned to Anya. She was panting, her head hung low. “Bruce,” she whimpered. “Please.”
She then rolled onto her back, her movements fluid and purposeful. She hooked her legs over her own arms, spreading herself obscenely wide. Then, with a look of pure, wanton challenge, she reached back with both hands, pulling her own asscheeks apart, exposing her tight, pink rosette, glistening from his saliva. “Come take it,” she breathed, her voice dark with promise. “Take everything.”
He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging that impossible entrance. He pushed. Her breath hissed out between clenched teeth as he breached her, stretching her open with a slow, relentless pressure. She was tighter than Susan, tighter than Ketut, a virgin claim in this most intimate of spaces. He sank into her, a groan tearing from his own throat.
As he began to move, establishing a deep, rocking rhythm in Anya’s ass, Freya moved. She didn’t go to his side. She crawled forward, over her sister’s trembling body, and lowered her dripping pussy onto Anya’s waiting mouth. Anya’s eyes fluttered open, then closed in bliss as she tasted her sister. Freya faced Bruce, her own face a mask of ecstasy. She leaned forward, capturing his mouth in a deep, passionate kiss.
They were all connected—a circuit of flesh and sensation. Bruce fucked Anya’s ass with slow, powerful strokes. Anya ate Freya’s pussy with desperate fervor. Freya rode her sister’s face, kissing Bruce as if stealing his breath. The synchronicity was perfect, a wordless, practiced dance. Freya’s moans vibrated into Bruce’s mouth. He could feel Anya’s climax building through the tight clenching around his cock, her cries muffled against her sister’s core.
Freya came first, screaming into Bruce’s mouth, her body convulsing. The tremors triggered Anya, whose ass spasmed wildly around Bruce, pulling his own orgasm from him in a deep, pulsing rush. He poured into her, his thrusts turning ragged, as Freya collapsed against his chest, and Anya sobbed her release into the humid air.
They stayed locked together until they softened, sliding apart into a tangled, breathless heap of limbs on the sheets. The dawn light was stronger now, grey and soft. Bruce lay between them, an arm around each. Their sweat cooled. Their breathing slowed. In the quiet, with the twins’ heads on his shoulders and the last of the night’s passion spent, he finally felt the deep, profound stillness he had been chasing all along. Sleep, true and dreamless, pulled him under.