Chapter 69: Constructed Depravity
The amber liquid in the crystal tumbler caught the last of the nursery’s dying light as Bruce stood by the window. Behind him, Lena and Susannah lay tangled on the chaise, deep in exhausted sleep, their breathing soft and synchronized. He took a slow sip, the bourbon’s heat a grounding echo of the other heat that still hummed in his veins. The house was quiet now, a living, breathing quiet.
He found the note on the bourbon decanter in the main hall, Camille’s looping script unmistakable on the thick, cream paper.
My love,
Pour one for Jake, too. Bring him. Meet me in the Mirror Room.
I’ve made something new. A challenge.
-C
A slow smile spread across Bruce’s face. A challenge. From Camille, that word was a promise, an invitation to the edges of their known world.
He found Jake in the library, the young man poring over a massive, leather-bound volume of maps from worlds that never were. He looked up, Roland’s dark blue bombardier eyes sharp with intelligence.
“Bruce. The house is… quieter now.”
“It’s resting,” Bruce said, pouring a second glass from the decanter he’d carried down. He handed it to Jake. “Camille has requested us. In the Mirror Room.”
Jake took the glass, a flicker of something—anticipation, readiness—passing over his young features. He nodded. “Okay.”
They walked the long hallway in companionable silence, the only sound the soft tread of their bare feet on the runner. As they neared the double doors of the Mirror Room, a new scent mixed with the usual vanilla—ozone, musk, and something indefinably clean, like polished stone.
Bruce pushed the doors open.
The scene within was a study in multiplied desire. The floor-to-ceiling mirrors, usually reflecting just a couple or a trio, now held a crowd. Camille stood at the center, naked, her curvy figure a confident silhouette against the polished mahogany panels. She was smiling, a wide, triumphant smile. Arrayed around her, standing in a loose semicircle, were five men.
They were perfect. Impossibly so. Handsome, each with subtly varied features—different jawlines, different sets to their shoulders, different shades of closely-cropped hair—but all sharing a statuesque, muscular build that spoke of pure, engineered power. Their skin had a slight sheen, not quite human, catching the golden light from the hidden sconces. They were naked, and each was endowed with a cock so massive it looked almost caricature, yet utterly real: thick as a wrist, long, and hanging heavily between powerful thighs. Bruce’s constructs. Perfected.
And they were all fully, rigidly erect.
Jake inhaled sharply beside him. “Hell of a challenge,” he murmured, his own notable arousal already evident.
Camille turned towards them, her eyes alight. “You came.” Her gaze swept over Bruce, possessive and proud, then settled on Jake, appraising. “Good. I wanted an audience of connoisseurs first.”
She walked towards one of the constructs, her steps measured. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around its shaft, her hand barely meeting in the middle. She looked back over her shoulder at Bruce, her smile turning wicked.
“I worked on the texture,” she said, stroking the length slowly. “Nerve endings. Responsive pressure. And the release mechanism is fully autonomic now. They feel. In their way.” She let go and turned to face them fully. “I thought seven would do it. A real challenge.”
Bruce felt a surge of pure, fierce pride. This was her art. Her domain. He moved into the room, Jake following, the doors whispering shut behind them. The mirrors captured their every move from infinite angles.
“What’s the objective?” Bruce asked, his voice low.
“The objective is to see if I can take them all,” Camille said, her tone matter-of-fact, as if discussing a recipe. “Every single one. To completion. I want to feel so full I forget my own name.”
She walked to the center of the room, where a large, low pad of dark velvet lay. She knelt on it, then looked at the constructs. “You first. In order. You know the order.”
The first construct stepped forward. Its movements were fluid, eerily natural. It knelt behind her. Camille arched her back, presenting herself, and the construct placed its huge, blunt head against her entrance. There was no hesitation, no gentle probing. It pushed forward.
Camille’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp, her eyes squeezing shut. The mirror in front of her showed the relentless, slow invasion, the impossible stretch of her body accommodating the girth. She took it, inch by devastating inch, until the construct’s hips met the full, round curves of her ass. A shuddering moan finally escaped her.
“Fuck,” Jake breathed, transfixed.
Bruce watched, his own blood pounding. He saw the strain, the pleasure, the absolute surrender on his wife’s face. The construct began to move, a slow, deep, mechanical rhythm. It wasn’t rough; it was inexorable.
Before the first one finished, the second moved. It came around to her front. Camille, her eyes blurry with sensation, opened her mouth obediently. The second construct fed its monstrous cock past her lips. She gagged once, a wet, choking sound, then relaxed her throat, taking it deep, her cheeks hollowing as she tried to suck.
The Mirror Room filled with the sounds: the wet, rhythmic slap of hips against ass, the choked, eager slurping, Camille’s muffled, continuous moans.
The third construct knelt beside her, its hand wrapping around her small, perky breast, squeezing, pinching her nipple. The fourth simply stood nearby, its cock angled towards her face, a glistening drop of pre-cum catching the light.
“Bruce,” Camille managed around the shaft in her mouth, the word distorted.
He understood. He moved to her side, kneeling on the velvet. He took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. Her grip was vice-tight. He watched her face, the tears of overwhelming sensation tracking through her mascara, the flush of brutal ecstasy spreading across her chest.
The first construct’s rhythm hitched. Camille’s eyes flew open, wide. A guttural, choked scream vibrated around the cock in her mouth as the construct buried itself to the hilt and pulsed. Bruce could see the deep, internal throb through her abdominal muscles. The construct held, pumping its artificial, yet very real, release into her.
As it pulled out, dripping, the third construct took its place immediately, not missing a beat. Camille’s body convulsed, still rippling with the aftershocks of the first completion, as a new, identical invasion began.
It went on like that. A brutal, beautiful, engineered ballet of possession. When the one in her mouth finished, Jake, his face a mask of intense focus, stepped in. He guided his thick, natural length into her mouth, giving her a different texture, a different rhythm to cling to. Camille’s eyes rolled back in gratitude, her throat working around him.
Bruce lost count of the transitions. Camille was a quaking, sobbing, drooling mess on the velvet pad, her body glistening with sweat and other fluids. The air was thick with the scent of sex and ozone. The mirrors reflected a fractal image of depravity and devotion, an infinite regress of fucking and surrender.
Finally, only one construct remained, and Bruce himself, rock-hard and aching. Camille lay on her back, her legs splayed, her body trembling with continuous, small tremors. She was utterly ravaged, her pussy swollen and glistening, a mixture of their combined releases seeping from her.
The final construct entered her again, its last, programmed duty. Camille could only whimper, her hands flopping weakly at her sides. Bruce positioned himself above her face. She turned her head, her tongue lolling out to lick his head, then took him deep, her mouth a hot, desperate sanctuary.
He watched the final construct achieve its climax, watched Camille’s back arch off the pad in a silent, seismic scream. As her body clamped down in a final, cataclysmic orgasm, Bruce followed. He thrust into the wet heat of her mouth once, twice, and let go, his release hitting the back of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, instinctively, her eyes closed, tears streaming into her hairline.
Silence descended, broken only by the ragged, sawing breaths of three humans and the quiet, standing stillness of the five perfected constructs.
Slowly, Camille’s breathing evened. She opened her eyes. They were hazy, satiated, profoundly peaceful. She looked up at Bruce, still nestled between her lips, and gave a soft, sucking kiss.
He pulled away gently, collapsing beside her on the soaked velvet. Jake slumped nearby, running a hand over his face.
After a long moment, Camille turned her head towards Bruce. A weak, triumphant smile touched her battered lips. “Seven,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and ruined. “Told you.”
Bruce leaned over and kissed her forehead, tasting salt and sex. “You’re fucking magnificent,” he said, the words thick with emotion.
In the mirrors around them, their multiplied, exhausted forms lay in a heap, a human tangle amidst the silent, perfect soldiers of her will. The challenge had been met. The house, around them, seemed to sigh, holding the echo of her victory in its very walls.
The house, around them, seemed to sigh, holding the echo of her victory in its very walls.
A slow, steady clapping broke the silence.
From the open doorway, Jasmine leaned against the frame, her arms crossed over her chest. Her dark eyes gleamed with appraisal, sweeping over the scene: the spent constructs, the glistening, panting forms of Camille, Bruce, and Jake on the velvet pad.
“Nice work, Millie,” Jasmine said, her voice a low, smoky ribbon in the quiet room. “Truly impressive engineering. A symphony of fuck.”
Camille managed a weak, proud smile from the floor, a hand drifting to her stomach. “It was… adequate.”
Jasmine pushed off the doorframe, her movements sleek and predatory. She was already naked, her body a testament to fierce training and grace. She walked into the room, her bare feet silent on the polished wood, her gaze locking onto Bruce, then Jake.
“I think I can take five at the same time,” she stated, as casually as someone discussing the weather. She stopped, standing over them, her scent of jasmine and clean sweat mixing with the heavy musk in the air. “But two of the five have to be Bruce and Jake. You guys okay rubbing your dicks against construct dicks inside me?”
Bruce let out a short, shocked laugh, the sound raw in his throat. He looked at Jake, whose young face showed only a sharp, focused hunger. Bruce nodded slowly, a fresh, dark thrill coiling in his gut. “Yeah. We’re okay with that.”
“Good,” Jasmine said, her smile all teeth.
She didn’t wait for further invitation. She pointed to two of the nearest constructs, the ones that stood gleaming and perfect. “You two. Prep work.”
The constructs moved with silent, fluid obedience. They knelt before her, one behind, one in front. The one in front leaned in, its mouth closing over Jasmine’s clit with a programmed, precise suction. She gasped, her head falling back, her hands immediately tangling in its short, synthetic hair. The construct behind her spread her ass cheeks, its tongue, warm and surprisingly agile, delving into the tight, dark furl of her anus.
“Oh, fuck yes,” Jasmine moaned, her hips pushing back against the probing tongue. “Just like that. Get me soaking.”
Camille watched, propped on an elbow, her own body still humming. This was different from her own controlled challenge. This was Jasmine’s wild, claimed chaos. Bruce and Jake got to their feet, their cocks, hardened again by the spectacle, standing thick and ready.
The constructs worked her with relentless, artificial skill. Jasmine’s breath came in short, sharp pants. Her knees trembled. A slick, shiny coat of her arousal dripped down her inner thighs. “Enough,” she finally commanded, her voice shaky but firm. “I’m ready. Positions.”
The constructs stood. Jasmine guided them with practiced hands, her confidence absolute. She looked at Bruce, then Jake. “You two, flank me. Behind them.”
She positioned the first two constructs side-by-side, their massive, identical cocks angled upward. Gripping them, she lowered herself, guiding both slick, broad heads to her stretched, glistening entrance. She took a deep, settling breath, her concentration absolute.
Then she sank down.
It was a brutal, breathtaking sight. The twin shafts disappeared into her, stretching her impossibly wide, forcing a ragged shout from her lips. The mirror across from her reflected the invasion, the profound distension of her body taking such girth. She held there, impaled, her muscles fluttering around the intrusion.
“Now,” she gritted out, sweat beading on her forehead.
She gestured to the two constructs behind her. They moved in, their own cocks aimed at her other hole. With one hand guiding each, she pushed back, taking the twin heads into her ass. The scream she let out was pure, raw triumph mixed with tearing pleasure. She was now filled front and back, a living sheath for four monolithic, artificial cocks.
“Bruce, Jake,” she panted, her body straining, trembling with the effort of holding the position. “Now you. Behind them. Push in alongside. I want to feel all of you.”
Bruce stepped forward, his own size suddenly feeling almost modest next to the constructs. He pressed the head of his cock against the one already buried in her pussy, feeling the warm, slick slide of latex-skin and Jasmine’s stretched flesh. Jake mirrored him on the other side. With a shared glance, they pushed forward.
Jasmine’s entire body went rigid. A wordless, choked sound was forced from her lungs. Bruce felt the incredible, crushing pressure as he slid in beside the construct, his shaft rubbing against its artificial counterpart, both enveloped by the same fiery, tight channel. The sensation was astronomical—friction on all sides, the heat, the sheer overwhelming fullness.
Jasmine’s head lolled forward, then snapped up, her eyes blazing. “The fifth,” she demanded, her voice a strained whisper. “Now.”
The final construct approached her face. Without hesitation, she opened her mouth, taking the broad crown past her lips, deep into her throat. She gagged once, tears springing to her eyes, then relaxed, accepting it.
She was full. Utterly, shockingly full. Five cocks moving in a slow, tentative rhythm inside her, four in her lower holes, one fucking her throat. The mirrors multiplied the image into an infinity of tangled limbs and penetrated orifices, a kaleidoscope of extreme sex.
“Move,” she begged around the cock in her mouth, the word a wet, distorted vibration.
They began. It was a clumsy, powerful, deeply intimate mechanics. Bruce thrust, his pelvis meeting the cool, firm hip of the construct beside him, his cock sliding against its shaft within the confines of Jasmine’s body. Jake matched his rhythm, grunting with the effort. The constructs maintained their steady, programmed pace.
Jasmine’s sounds were beyond words. Guttural moans, choked screams, wet, slurping swallows around the fifth cock. Her body was a concert of stretched, penetrated flesh, rocking between the five points of invasion. Her eyes rolled back, showing white.
Camille watched, her own hand drifting between her legs, her breath catching. This wasn’t her victory anymore. This was Jasmine’s. A conquering.
The pace quickened. The wet, slapping sounds grew louder, mixing with the strained metal creak of the chaise Jasmine now braced against. Bruce felt his own climax building, a tidal wave forced to the surface by the intense, shared pressure. Jake cried out first, his body stiffening, his release pulsing into the already crowded space.
Jasmine felt it. The new, hot spill sent her over the edge. Her orgasm was a violent, seismic locking of every muscle. She clenched around the four cocks inside her, her throat constricting around the fifth, her whole body bowing in an arch of unsustainable pleasure.
The signal triggered the constructs. Almost in unison, they pulsed, pumping their synthetic cum into her depths. Bruce saw it, felt it, and his own control shattered. He came with a roar, his release joining the flood, a human contribution to the artificial deluge.
For a long, suspended moment, they held, a trembling sculpture of utter completion.
Then, with a slow, gentle disentangling, they withdrew. Jasmine collapsed forward onto the velvet, a copious mixture of fluids immediately seeping from her. She didn’t move. She just breathed, a deep, shuddering breath that sounded like life itself.
Camille crawled over to her, lying beside her, stroking her sweat-soaked hair. “Okay,” Camille whispered, echoing Susannah’s word from the nursery, a quiet acknowledgment of a boundary crossed, a limit annihilated.
Jasmine turned her head, a slow, utterly sated smile spreading across her face. “Told you,” she breathed, mirroring Camille’s own earlier triumph.
In the doorway, unseen until now, Lena and Susannah stood, wrapped in robes. Their expressions were unreadable, a mixture of awe and something darker, hungrier. They had seen the new benchmark. The house held its breath, waiting to see what came next.
The house held its breath, waiting to see what came next.
Lena broke the silence from the doorway. “Well, fuck,” she said, her voice husky with sleep and awe. She let her robe drop to the floor, the fabric pooling around her feet. Susannah followed suit, the terrycloth falling away to reveal her lean, scarred frame still glistening from their earlier spent passions in the nursery.
They stepped into the Mirror Room, their reflections multiplying endlessly in the polished glass, joining the exhausted tangle of bodies on the velvet pad. The air was thick, heavy with the smells of sex and ozone and spent ambition.
Camille looked up from where she stroked Jasmine’s hair. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. She saw the look in Lena’s eyes, the predatory stillness in Susannah’s stance. “The audience wants an encore,” Camille murmured, mostly to herself.
Jake was the first to stir, pushing himself up on trembling arms. He watched Lena approach, her amazing body moving with a liquid confidence. She walked directly to the nearest construct, the one that had been in Jasmine’s mouth. It stood, passive and gleaming. Lena reached out and wrapped her hand around its shaft, slick with saliva and pre-cum.
“Still hard,” she noted, her tone clinical, fascinated. “Do they ever stop?”
“They obey,” Camille answered softly from the floor. “They wait for a command.”
“Clean him,” Lena said, looking at the construct. Then she turned her dark eyes on Jake. “You too. I want to taste everything that just happened.”
The construct moved. It knelt before her, its face an expressionless mask of handsome features. It began to lick its own shaft, its tongue lapping up the remnants of Jasmine’s mouth, the synthetic tang mixing with the organic musk.
Jake, compelled by a hunger darker than exhaustion, shuffled forward on his knees. He positioned himself beside the construct, his own spent but responsive cock hovering near Lena’s parted lips. She took him in first, sucking him deep with a hungry, hollowing pull that made his whole body jolt.
Bruce watched, propped against a mirrored wall, his own energy returning in a slow, relentless tide. He saw Susannah’s gaze fixed on him. She wasn’t looking at the others. Her deep brown eyes were locked on his, reading the fatigue and the rekindling fire beneath it.
“You’re not done,” she stated. It wasn’t a question.
“No,” Bruce said, the word a low rumble in his chest.
Susannah nodded, then turned her attention to the other constructs. She pointed to two. “You. Hold her up.” She pointed at Lena, who was busy sucking Jake back to full hardness while the construct cleaned itself beside her.
The constructs moved smoothly, each taking one of Lena’s arms, lifting her gently but firmly until she was suspended between them, her feet barely touching the floor. She released Jake with a wet pop, a grin spreading across her face. “I like this,” she breathed.
Susannah knelt behind the suspended woman. She placed her hands on Lena’s ass, spreading her cheeks. She leaned in, her tongue finding Lena’s asshole, still loose and slick from the earlier attention in the nursery. She laved at it, her tongue dipping inside, preparing her.
“Now,” Susannah said, pulling back. She gestured to one of the remaining constructs. It stepped forward, its massive, artificial cock nudging against the puckered entrance Susannah had just lubricated.
It pushed in without ceremony.
Lena’s head snapped back, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. The stretch was brutal, immediate. The construct held her hips and began a steady, deep rhythm, fucking her ass with a piston-like precision that shook her whole suspended body.
“Jake,” Susannah commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Her cunt. Now.”
Jake needed no further urging. He positioned himself, thrusting up into Lena’s wet, waiting pussy from below. She was filled completely, front and back, stretched to a breathtaking limit. Her cries fragmented into panting, sobbing gasps.
Camille watched, her fingers still absently tracing patterns on Jasmine’s back. Her own body tingled, a sympathetic echo. She glanced at Bruce. “Your turn, love. Don’t leave Susannah waiting.”
Bruce pushed himself off the wall. The power within him, a well that never seemed to run dry, surged in response to the command in his wife’s voice, to the raw tableau before him. He walked towards Susannah, his body already changing, thickening, extending.
Susannah saw him coming. She turned, still on her knees, and opened her mouth. She took him in deeply, her throat relaxing around his girth with a practiced, desperate ease. She sucked him, her head bobbing, her eyes screwed shut in concentration, muffled sounds of effort vibrating around his shaft.
The Mirror Room became a machine of flesh and motion. The slap-slap-slap of the construct pounding Lena’s ass, the wet, squeezing sound of Jake driving into her pussy, the gulping, choked sounds of Susannah’s throat working on Bruce. Lena’s moans rose in a continuous, wordless song of overwhelmed pleasure.
Bruce looked down at Susannah’s face, her cheeks hollowed, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. He tangled his hands in her curls, not guiding, just holding. He let her set the pace, his hips moving in shallow thrusts to meet her need.
He felt his climax building, a coiling pressure in his groin. Susannah sensed it. She redoubled her efforts, her hands clawing at his thighs, taking him deeper, swallowing around him with a frantic, greedy intensity.
Lena came first. Her body, stretched and hammered from both ends, convulsed in a violent, screaming orgasm that clamped down on Jake and the construct simultaneously, milking them. The sensation triggered Jake’s own release. He shouted, pumping into her, his orgasm ripped from him.
The construct in Lena’s ass followed, its programmed rhythm stuttering into a final, deep plunge as it emptied its synthetic load into her depths.
Bruce pulled himself from Susannah’s mouth with a wet sound. She gasped for air, her lips swollen and slick. “Turn around,” he growled.
She obeyed instantly, presenting herself to him, her back arched, her hands flat on the floor. He entered her pussy in one driving stroke. She was soaked, tight, a hot velvet fist clenching around him. He fucked her with a relentless, focused fury, each thrust slamming her forward.
Susannah met every one, pushing back, her cries short and sharp. “Yes! Right there, goddamn you, right there!”
He could see Lena, still trembling between the two constructs, watching them with glazed, blissful eyes. He could see Camille, now sitting up, her own hand working between her legs as she watched him claim the gunslinger. The mirrors reflected it all, a fractal cascade of his own driving hips, Susannah’s submission, their shared, ferocious need.
His orgasm exploded from him, a wave of blinding white heat that tore a ragged roar from his lungs. He pulsed inside her, once, twice, a third time, each spurt a profound, possessive release.
He collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the velvet. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths, mixing with Lena’s soft whimpers and Jake’s exhausted sigh.
Camille’s voice cut through the haze, clear and bright. “So,” she said, her fingers still lazily circling her clit. “Who’s hungry?”