Chapter 189: Virgin Conquest
The geothermal springs lay in a deep volcanic rift, a secret place where the planet’s blood rose close to the surface. Steaming pools, some turquoise, others milky white, dotted the obsidian floor like scattered jewels under the eerie light of a swollen, blood-red moon. The air was thick with the scent of minerals and ozone, and a deep, subsonic thrum vibrated up through the soles of their feet—the distant heartbeat of the world itself.
Krilla stood at the edge of the largest pool, her crimson hair damp from the steam, her body washed clean of the previous day’s dust and sweat. She wore nothing. The impressive, muscular curves of her body, still marked with fading bruises from her fight with Sonya, looked alien and magnificent in the ruddy light. She was trying to stand with her usual warrior’s rigidity, but a fine, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her thighs.
She was terrified.
Not of battle. Not of pain. Of the vulnerability that came next. The final surrender.
Bruce, Sonya, and Ketut were already in the pool. The water was deep and perfectly, skin-pinking hot. Bruce leaned back against a smooth obsidian shelf, the water lapping at his chest. Sonya floated near him, her ink-black hair fanned out around her like a dark halo. Ketut was closer to the edge, her dark eyes watching Krilla with profound empathy, reading the storm of fear, shame, and latent, confused desire in the Saiyan’s coiled posture.
“The water will help,” Ketut said, her voice a soft melody against the geothermal gurgle. “It softens. It accepts. Come in, Krilla.”
Krilla’s red eyes flicked to Bruce. He gave a single, slow nod. It was permission, and command. She stepped down into the pool, the heat an immediate, enveloping shock. She sank up to her neck, as if hiding.
Sonya swam over with silent, easy strokes. “You are still a virgin in the ways that matter to a Saiyan female,” she said, matter-of-fact. “The channel made for breeding. The one reserved for a mate. You have taken him in your mouth. You have felt his seed. But the claiming is not complete until he fills the places meant for it.”
“I am not afraid of splitting,” Krilla growled, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
“It’s not the splitting you fear,” Ketut murmured, drifting closer. “It’s the belonging. Once he’s inside those gates, they are his. You know this. Your body knows this. Your spirit is fighting it.”
“My spirit is a warrior’s spirit,” Krilla hissed.
“And so is his,” Bruce said, his voice echoing softly off the obsidian walls. He didn’t move from his shelf. “A warrior can surrender to a stronger force without dishonor. That force isn’t just my cock, Krilla. It’s this.” He gestured around the pool, at the women, at the steaming air. “The bond. You felt its edges yesterday. Today, you let it in. All the way in.”
Sonya reached Krilla. She put her hands on Krilla’s broad shoulders, turning her to face Bruce. “I will guide you. Ketut will hold you. You will look into his eyes. You will not look away.”
Krilla allowed herself to be positioned. Ketut moved behind her, pressing her lush, lithe body against Krilla’s back, her arms slipping around Krilla’s waist. The physical contact made Krilla jolt, but Ketut just held tighter, whispering, “Shhh. I feel it all. The tightness in your belly. The fire in your heart. Let it burn through you. I can take it.”
Bruce stood. The water sluiced off his torso. In the red moonlight, he looked like a myth carved from shadow and granite. His cock, already half-hard, thickened and lengthened as they watched, a deliberate, awe-inspiring transformation. It grew to its full, monstrous dimension—fourteen inches of rigid, veined flesh, as thick as his wrist, the head a broad, smooth crown. It stood proudly from his body, a primal challenge.
Krilla’s breath hitched. She had seen it, had taken it in her mouth. But seeing it now, knowing its destination, was different. A low, involuntary whine escaped her throat.
“Your cunt is virgin,” Sonya said, her hands sliding down Krilla’s arms. “It is made to stretch. Made to take a Saiyan mate. It will feel like dying. For a moment. Then it will feel like the only thing that has ever been true.” She looked at Bruce. “Now, my love. She is ready as she will ever be.”
Bruce moved through the water. He didn’t rush. The water parted around his thighs. He stopped before Krilla, so close the heat from his body was hotter than the spring. He cupped her face, his thumb tracing the sharp line of her cheekbone. “You are magnificent,” he said, and it wasn’t flattery. It was an assessment. “Now, you become mine.”
He leaned in and kissed her. It was deep, claiming, his tongue mapping the interior of her mouth as his hands slid down her wet skin, over the powerful swell of her breasts, the defined ridges of her stomach, to the junction of her thighs. His fingers found her folds, already slick with a mixture of thermal water and her own reluctant arousal.
“Spread your legs,” he murmured against her mouth.
With Ketut holding her from behind, Krilla obeyed. She let her feet find purchase on the slick pool floor and widened her stance. Bruce’s fingers parted her, testing her opening. It was tight, a silken, clenched ring of muscle.
“Hold her,” Bruce said to Ketut.
Ketut tightened her grip, locking her arms around Krilla’s midsection. Sonya moved to Krilla’s side, taking one of Krilla’s hands and lacing their fingers together.
Bruce positioned the blunt, massive head of his cock at her entrance. It was already too big, an impossibility. Krilla stared down, her red eyes wide, watching as he pressed forward.
The pressure was immense.
“Breathe out,” Sonya commanded.
Krilla exhaled in a shuddering rush. Bruce pushed.
There was a moment of pure, seizing resistance. A burning, stretching tautness that made Krilla see white flashes behind her eyes. A raw, ragged sound was torn from her chest. Then, with a soft, wet pop, the crest of his cockhead breached her. She was penetrated. Virginity, a concept she’d never considered, was annihilated in an instant.
“Gods…” she gasped, her head falling back against Ketut’s shoulder.
“It’s just the head,” Bruce growled, his own jaw tight with the effort of control. “The knot. You have to take the knot, Krilla.”
He pushed again, a slow, inexorable invasion. The stretch was astronomical. She felt herself opening, flesh and muscle yielding to a girth that felt like it would cleave her in two. The burning intensified, a bright, sharp pain that bordered on agony. She panted, her claws digging into Sonya’s hand.
“Look at me,” Bruce demanded.
She forced her eyes open, forcing them to focus on his hazel gaze. In them, she didn’t see cruelty. She saw fierce possession, heat, and a flicker of something that might have been compassion. She also saw Ketut’s reflection, the Balinese woman’s eyes closed, her face a mask of shared sensation, absorbing the brunt of Krilla’s pain and transmuting it.
Bruce slid another inch, then another. The stretch became a profound, full feeling. The pain began to blur, mixing with a shocking, deep internal friction that sparked something else. A need. A raw, hungry need to be filled.
“Fuck,” Krilla whispered, the obscenity a prayer.
“Yes,” Bruce said. He pulled back an inch and then sheathed himself fully in one final, devastating thrust.
He was in. To the root.
Krilla screamed. It was a sound of utter annihilation. Her inner walls, never before touched, were stretched around a column of flesh that touched everything, claimed everything. She was impaled. She was full in a way that rewired her nervous system. The pain peaked in a crescendo and then, abruptly, shattered into a million blinding points of pleasure. Her cunt convulsed around him, a violent, involuntary spasm of welcome.
Bruce held still, buried inside her, letting her body adjust to the invasion. He leaned his forehead against hers, his breath hot. “There. You are pierced. You are opened.”
He began to move.
Withdrawing was almost as shocking as entry. The drag of his thick shaft against her ravaged, sensitive nerves was a slow torture. Then the return, a deep, claiming slam that shoved the air from her lungs. He set a rhythm—slow, deep, ponderous strokes that emphasized his size, his ownership of the space he now occupied.
Krilla was unraveling. Each thrust punched a choked sob or a garbled curse from her lips. “Oh… fuck… oh, god… it’s too… it’s so deep…” Her hands clutched at Sonya, at Ketut’s arms. She was a conduit, taking the physical claiming and, through Ketut’s empathy, feeling the emotional intent behind it—not just domination, but integration. A brutal, necessary welding.
“You feel it, don’t you?” Sonya whispered in her ear, her own voice husky with arousal. “The bond threading into you. Sewing you into the tapestry. You are no longer a lone fragment. You are being made whole.”
Bruce’s pace increased. The water churned around them. The slapping sounds of their coupling echoed off the stone, mingling with the groans of the earth. He fucked her with a relentless, pounding intensity, each drive bending her body backward over Ketut’s supportive frame. Krilla’s noises shifted from pain to a desperate, hungry pleading.
“More… don’t stop… please, I need… I need…”
“You need to come,” Bruce grunted, his control fraying. “Come on my cock, Krilla. Come for your family. Let us feel you.”
The command, the permission, broke the last dam. The confusing storm of sensation coalesced into a tight, white-hot coil at her core. It wound tighter with every brutal thrust, fed by the overwhelming fullness, the filthy, beautiful words, the press of her sister-wives against her.
It detonated.
Her orgasm was a silent, catastrophic event for a second before the sound tore loose. A raw, screaming wail that echoed in the cavern. Her cunt clamped down on Bruce’s cock in a series of vicious, milking spasms, the muscles fluttering wildly around the invader. She shook violently, held upright only by Ketut and Sonya, her vision swimming with stars and the red moon’s glow.
Bruce roared as her internal convulsions triggered his own release. He slammed into her one last time, hilt-deep, and held. She felt the hot, deep pulse of his cum flooding her, a scalding rush that seemed to go on and on, marking her, seeding her. The feeling of being filled beyond capacity, of being pumped full of him, cemented the act. It was a seal.
He stayed inside her until the last tremor left her limbs. Then, gently, he pulled out.
Krilla sagged, boneless, into Ketut’s arms. A trickle of fluid, water and seed, leaked down her thigh. She felt hollowed and yet more substantial than ever before.
But it wasn’t over.
Sonya helped Ketut guide Krilla to the pool’s shelf, turning her onto her hands and knees. The obsidian was warm beneath her palms. Her well-used pussy throbbed, aching and open.
“The final gate,” Sonya said, her hands smoothing over Krilla’s ass. “The warrior’s surrender. This will be harder. It will burn more. But you will take it. Because it is the last thing you have to give, and giving it makes you complete.”
Bruce was behind her already. He slicked his cock, still wet with her juices and his cum, and pressed the broad head against her other, tighter rosette.
Krilla tensed. This was a violation of a different order. This was not a channel made for it. This was conquest, pure and simple.
“Breathe, sister,” Ketut whispered, kneeling in the water beside her, one hand on Krilla’s lower back, sharing the imminent pain, softening its edge. “Let the earth take the strain. We have you.”
Bruce pushed.
The breach here was a sharper, hotter, drier pain. Krilla cried out, a guttural sound. There was no natural give. It was a forced entry, a stunning, invasive stretch that made her previous claiming seem almost gentle. She felt herself tearing, yielding. Bruce spat into his hand, worked it around the straining junction, and pushed again.
He sank into her ass, inch by impossible inch. It was a slow, excruciating impalement. Krilla sobbed, her claws scoring grooves into the soft rock. The fullness was insane, a rectal stretching that touched nerves she didn’t know existed. It felt wrong. It felt filthy. It felt like the ultimate submission.
When he was fully seated, he stopped, allowing her to feel the total, crushing fullness. She was packed, front and back, with the memory of him.
“You are mine,” Bruce said, his voice thick with possessive ferocity. “Every hole. Every thought. Every beat of your warrior’s heart. It belongs to this family now.”
He began to fuck her ass in earnest.
This was a rougher, more animalistic rhythm. There was no pretense of breeding, only ownership. The sounds were wetter, dirtier. Krilla’s cries melted into continuous, low moans. The sharp pain blurred again, morphing into a deep, burning, perverse pleasure. Being taken here, in this most forbidden place, by her god, while her sister-wives witnessed and supported her, completed the psychic circuit. She was not being debased. She was being initiated through a sacred, profane rite.
Her second climax came unexpectedly, ripping through her with shocking force. It was less a wave and more a seismic event, wracking her already overstimulated body, her ass clenching wildly around the cock that pistoned within it. This time, Bruce followed quickly. With a final, deep grind, he emptied himself into her bowels, another hot, claiming flood that seemed to brand her from the inside.
He collapsed forward over her back, spent. They stayed like that for long minutes, connected, breathing in the steam and the scent of sex and minerals.
Finally, he slipped out of her. Krilla slumped into the water, barely conscious. Sonya and Ketut gently washed her, their touches reverent. They cleaned the traces of blood and seed from her thighs.
Carried back to the temple and laid in a soft nest of blankets, Krilla lay on her side. Bruce lay behind her, his body a warm wall. Sonya curled against her front, Ketut at her feet. The physical connections were a quiet echo of the violent ones from the pool.
In the dark, Krilla spoke, her voice hoarse and small.
“The fragment… doesn’t feel so cold anymore.”
Sonya kissed her shoulder. Ketut sighed in shared relief.
Behind her, Bruce draped a heavy arm over her waist, his hand splaying possessively over her abdomen, where his seed might even now be taking root.
“It’s not a fragment anymore,” he said into her hair.
“It’s not a fragment anymore,” he said into her hair.
Silence settled, thick and warm like the blankets. Krilla listened to the three rhythms of breathing surrounding her—Bruce’s deep and steady cadence against her back, Sonya’s light syncopation at her front, Ketut’s quiet harmony from the foot of the bed. The phantom ache between her legs and the sharper, burning reminder in her ass were not pains. They were signatures. Inscriptions. She felt scrawled upon, internally and permanently.
Dawn came, grey and soft.
She woke alone in the tangle of sheets, the spaces where they had lain still warm. The absence was a shock. A cold spike of old panic lanced through her gut—had it been a trick? A cruel dream? She sat up, wincing at the protest from her thoroughly used muscles.
The smell of food, rich and savory, wound its way up from below. Voices, overlapping and laughing. Normal sounds. Life sounds.
She stood, her legs shaky. On a chair lay fresh clothes—simple, soft trousers and a tunic, not unlike what Sonya wore. Dressing was a slow, deliberate ritual. Each movement made her aware of the profound internal tenderness. She felt loose. Changed. She walked out of the room and down the curved stone staircase, following the sounds.
The great kitchen was a sunlit chaos. Camille stood at a vast stove, a sizzling pan in hand, her curls tied back. Lena was perched on a central island, stealing a strip of bacon, her laugh loud and bright. Jasmine and Julianna were setting a long, rustic table with an easy camaraderie. Arya floated near the window, sipping something from a porcelain cup, her form almost shimmering in the light.
All movement stopped when Krilla appeared in the archway.
For a suspended second, she faced their collective gaze. She braced for scrutiny, for judgment, for the competitive assessment of a warrior’s circle.
“Holy hell, look at you,” Lena whistled, breaking the silence. Her eyes swept over Krilla with blatant approval. “Walk a little funny, red?”
A ripple of soft laughter moved through the room, but it wasn’t mocking. It was knowing. Warm.
“Leave her be, Lena,” Camille chided gently, but she was smiling. She turned, wiping her hands on a towel. “Are you hungry? You must be starving. The claiming burns energy like nothing else.”
Krilla just stood, her defensive posture slowly unraveling. She gave a single, stiff nod.
“Sit,” Jasmine said, pulling out a chair. “Before Lena eats everything.”
Krilla moved to the chair, her walk indeed an awkward, wide-legged shuffle. She sat carefully, the wood firm against her soreness. A plate appeared before her, heaped with eggs, roasted potatoes, bacon, and a pile of fragrant fruit. It was a staggering amount of food.
“Eat,” Camille commanded, returning to her pan. “Your body needs to repair. Saiyan metabolism is no joke, especially after…”
“Especially after getting wrecked by the main event,” Lena finished, grinning as she hopped off the island. She came over, leaning on the table beside Krilla. “So? How was it? I mean, we all heard the screaming from the springs. Sounded pretty intense.”
“Lena!” Julianna hissed, though she was leaning forward, clearly listening.
Krilla stared at her plate, her cheeks heating. What was the protocol here? She settled on blunt truth. “It felt like being unmade.” She looked up, meeting Lena’s curious gaze. “Then it felt like being rebuilt from his materials.”
Lena’s grin softened into something genuine. “Yeah. That’s about right. Hurts like a bitch and then suddenly it’s the only thing you ever want. Welcome to the family, princess.” She reached out and ruffled Krilla’s crimson hair, an unexpectedly casual affection that made Krilla flinch, then slowly relax.
Krilla ate. The food was incredible, each flavor a vivid explosion. She ate with the single-minded focus of a soldier, fueling a depleted system. As she ate, she watched. She saw Isabella enter, reading a datapad, and pause to kiss Bruce good morning where he sat at the head of the table in quiet conversation with Jake. She saw Sophia walk in, her fitness-gear-clad body gleaming with a light sweat, and grab an apple, biting into it with a loud crunch. She saw Freya and Briana tangled together on a window seat, speaking in low tones.
It was a hive. A thriving, noisy, interconnected organism. No one was alone.
After eating, a deep fatigue pulled at her. Camille pointed her toward the bathing chambers. “Go soak. Hot water. No one will bother you.”
The bathroom was a cavernous space of smooth stone with a sunken pool fed by a natural hot spring. Steam rose in lazy tendrils. Krilla shed her clothes and lowered herself into the blistering water with a sharp hiss. The heat seeped into her sore muscles, a welcome analgesia.
The door opened. Sonya slipped in, naked, her skin beaded with moisture from the main house. She didn’t speak. She simply entered the pool and sank opposite Krilla, her dark eyes watching.
“You are quiet,” Sonya finally said.
“I am… processing,” Krilla replied, her voice echoing softly off the stone. She looked down at her body beneath the water, at the faint bruises, at the memory in her flesh. “It is one thing to be defeated in combat. It is another to have your entire physiological purpose rewired in a single night.”
“It was necessary.”
“I know.” Krilla looked up. “Does the… emptiness fade? This feeling of being a hollowed-out vessel?”
A faint smile touched Sonya’s lips. “It is not emptiness. It is capacity. You were a closed circuit. Now you are open. The feeling of being a vessel is correct. You are now a vessel for the bond. It will fill you in time, with more than just his seed. With their laughter.” She nodded toward the door, beyond which the household hummed. “With their worries. Their joys. It becomes a weight inside you, but a weight that anchors, that grounds. It is the opposite of floating in the void.”
Krilla leaned her head back against the stone rim. “And the need? It is… incessant. Even now, aching, I feel a pull.”
“That is also the bond. It is a living thing. It demands reinforcement, confirmation.” Sonya’s gaze was understanding. “It will calm. But it never truly goes silent. You will learn to listen to its hum.”
The door opened again. This time it was Lena, with Briana in tow. Both were gloriously, unabashedly nude.
“Pool’s crowded,” Lena announced, stepping down into the water with a splash. “Move over, you two.”
Krilla instinctively shifted, making space. Briana slid in beside her, offering a shy smile. “Lena said you might want company that isn’t so… intense,” she said, her voice melodic.
“I said she might want some normal fucking chat,” Lena corrected, dunking her head under and coming up sputtering. “So, red. Now that you’re officially one of Bruce’s holy fuck-holes, what’s your thing?”
Krilla blinked. “My thing?”
“You know. Your gig. Camille cooks and protects. Ketut feels all our feelings. Sonya knows everything about the void. I’m potential, whatever the hell that means. Arya’s a lens. What’s your divine portfolio? Can’t just be ‘looks hot and punches hard.’ We’ve got Sophia for that.”
Krilla looked at her hands beneath the water. Her power had always been a simple, brutal fact—an aura of destruction, overwhelming force. But since the bonding, she’d felt a subtle shift, a new resonance. “My energy,” she said slowly. “It has always been pure amplification. Of my own strength, my own speed. Last night… when he was inside me… I felt it… echo. Into him. A feedback loop.”
Sonya sat up straight, water sluicing from her shoulders. “A feedback loop. You amplified his power as he claimed you.”
Krilla nodded. “It was minute. But it was there. My rose-gold aura… it briefly tinged his. Made it sharper, hotter.”
Lena’s eyes widened. “No shit. You’re a fucking amplifier. A living power booster.” She grinned, a wicked, delighted thing. “Oh, Bruce is gonna love that. Wait until he cums inside you during a real fight. He’ll blow up a goddamn star.”
The crude phrasing, the sheer casualness of it, made a laugh bubble up from Krilla’s chest. It was a rough, unfamiliar sound. The others joined in, and the sound of their laughter mingled with the steam in the vaulted room.
Later, dressed and following the flow of the household, Krilla found herself in the library. Bruce was there, studying an ancient scroll with Ketut. He looked up as she entered.
“Come here,” he said, his voice not a command, but an invitation.
She went. He pulled her into his lap, his arms wrapping around her waist. He nuzzled the side of her neck, inhaling her scent. “You smell of the spring. Of them. It’s a good smell.”
Ketut smiled, watching them. “The frayed edges are knitting. The integration is proceeding faster than I anticipated.”
“She’s an amplifier,” Krilla said, the words still foreign. “My power. It… feeds yours.”
Bruce went very still. He turned her face toward his, his hazel eyes searching hers. “Show me.”
He let a trickle of his power rise, a mere ember of the cosmic inferno he contained. Krilla focused. She called her own rose-gold energy, not in a flare, but as a directed current. She let it wrap around his ember.
The ember didn’t just brighten. It transformed. It became a bead of white-hot, savage potency that sang with a keener, more destructive frequency. It was his power, but edged with her unique, brutal signature.
Bruce’s breath caught. A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. “Gods.” He crushed his mouth to hers in a kiss that was all possessiveness and thrilled discovery. When he pulled back, his eyes burned. “Mine,” he whispered, the word holding new, terrifying dimension.