Chapter 26: The Reporter
They picked at platters of mango, dragonfruit, and soft white rice cakes, their bodies a catalog of tender pleasures. The soreness from the night before was a badge, a low hum beneath the skin that spoke of power banked, of a threshold crossed. The new fissure in the mirror room floor remained a silent, black seam.
“So, if the energy is conscious, if it chose us,” Freya said, poking a piece of papaya, “what’s the next step? We build something?”
“We listen,” Ketut offered, her voice soft. “The land here knows. So will you.”
A soft chime echoed in the room, followed by Wayan’s voice on the intercom, disembodied and tight. “Pak Bruce. There is a person at the main gate. A reporter. Asking for an interview.”
Bruce made a face, an involuntary curl of his lip.
Jasmine leaned forward on her elbows. “What’s the matter?”
Camille answered without looking up, wiping a drop of honey from her wrist. “He hates the news and reporters. It’s all government propaganda. Lies spun in boardrooms.”
Lena, slicing a starfruit with meticulous precision, glanced up. “Which news agency, Wayan?”
“Independent, Ibu Lena. Freelance.No van. Just a small camera.”
“Independent, huh?” Nalani drawled, pushing her plate away. Her black eyes held a cynical glint. “And we know exactly where this is gonna go if we let her in, right? Right up the path. Another one for the collection.”
Ketut looked at her, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face. She reached over and squeezed Nalani’s hand. “We let you in, remember? She was sitting right where you are, listening to Anya talk about warm springs and thinking she knew the game.” She gave Nalani’s fingers a gentle press. “It will be what it is.”
Bruce looked around the table. The nine women—Camille, Lena, the six from the Awakened, Sophia—watched him, their silent trust a palpable weight. “So? We let her do an interview? Or do we turn her away?”
They exchanged glances, a fluid, unspoken consensus. “You decide, mi Sombra,” Lena murmured, speaking for them all.
Bruce held Camille’s gaze for a beat. His wife gave him the smallest nod. “Okay Wayan,” he said to the ceiling. “Send her up. Alone.”
---
They met her on the wide, open-air veranda at the front of the house, where the jungle fell away to reveal a distant slice of azure sea. Bruce stood centrally, flanked loosely by the women. They weren’t a formation, more a living, breathing tapestry of female forms in various states of luxurious undress: silk robes, sarongs, the barest scraps of bikinis.
She walked up the stone path towards them.
She wore simple, cream-colored linen shorts, frayed at the hem, and a fitted white tank top. Her beauty was immediate, arresting, a lightning strike to the senses. She was exotic in a way that defied easy categorization, a masterpiece of blended bloodlines. Her skin was the color of warm caramel, her features a stunning fusion: high Slavic cheekbones, a full mouth of African descent, and slightly almond-shaped eyes that held the deep, verdant green of a twilight forest. Her dark hair, a cascade of thick waves, was streaked with gold as if by the sun itself. Her legs were long, toned, elegant. The tank top clung to a torso that was slim yet curved spectacularly; her breasts were full, heavy, and swayed with her confident stride without the restriction of a bra, their outline and the hint of dark nipples clearly visible against the thin cotton.
Her mind raced as she approached.
They’re real. Holy shit. The rumors aren’t close. Her eyes flickered over the women. That one’s like a Norse goddess. And that one… Asian and black mixed, perfection. Her gaze landed on Bruce, the focal point. He’s not just some rich pervert. He looks… carved. Like a king. Her journalistic curiosity flared. Are they brainwashed? Isolated? They look… sated. They look powerful. Her own vanity, the weapon she’d chosen, pricked her. Did I dress down too far? No, it got me through the gate. Fuck, they’re all looking at me like they can taste me.
Bruce studied her approach. Not the face of a seasoned predator, but of a beautiful young hunter, clever, using the only substantial tool she believed she had. Before she could open her mouth, reach for a recorder, offer a hand, his voice cut through the humid air. It wasn’t loud. It was absolute.
“Why did you come here dressed this way?”
The reporter froze, a slight stumble in her step. “I… excuse me?”
“Your attire.” Bruce’s swirling hazel eyes were dispassionate, analytic. “You clearly wanted your curves to be seen. This is not standard reporter’s attire for a potential adversarial interview at a secluded private compound. So. Why?”
The women behind him watched, silent and still as cats. The reporter’s cheeks flushed. A lie was prepared, a professional deflection about comfort in the tropical heat. But the combined, patient focus of all those eyes stripped her bare. Honesty felt like the only armor left. She lifted her chin.
“I did,” she said, her voice only trembling slightly. “I thought I’d be fighting with a bunch of other reporters. The… the beauty of the women here is widely spoken about in certain whispers. Online. The ‘Bali enclave.’ So I thought… if you appreciated beauty, that it would make you notice me. Get me past the others.”
Bruce’s eyes flickered over her face, seeing the youth now. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. He glanced at Ketut, a silent question. Ketut’s dark eyes were fixed on the girl, reading the subtle play of emotion, the microscopic tics. After a moment, Ketut gave a single, firm nod. It’s the truth.
“So,” Bruce said, taking a single step forward. “You heard about the reclusive man and his harem? And expected to garner an interview, exclusive access, because of your beauty. Is that about right?”
The blush deepened, creeping down her neck. A spark of defiance flashed in her green eyes, but it was smothered by the raw accuracy of his statement. She nodded, once.
The corners of Bruce’s mouth softened, not quite a smile. “You are beautiful. And you look stunning. But you have it wrong.” He gestured behind him, a sweeping motion that encompassed Camille, the glorious Nalani, Freya, all of them. “This isn’t a harem. There is no compulsion. These are my wives. We are partners, contributors to a shared path, a shared faith. We are equal here. Inequality serves no purpose in what we are building.”
The reporter’s mind stumbled over the words. Wives? Plural? Her journalistic skepticism warred with what her senses screamed: there was no fear in these women, only a potent, feline calm. “Wives,” she repeated, the word sounding foreign.
“He doesn’t lie.”
Camille’s voice was warm, gentle. She came to stand beside Bruce. “Eight weeks ago, I was his only wife. We ran a company in Los Angeles. Now… this. It has grown.” Camille’s smile was genuine, tinged with an ancient wisdom. “Would you like to sit? It’s a long story.”
Later, much later, after the raw telling over cups of spiced tea—the edited truth of awakenings, of energy, of a transformation—the reporter, whose name was Elara, sat with her small camera turned off, her notebook closed. She stared at the fissure in the mirror room floor, her mind reeling.
Jasmine walked in from the pool, water sluicing down her dark skin, her green eyes fixed on Elara. “You believe it, don’t you?” she said, without preamble.
Elara started. “I… it sounds insane.”
“But your gut doesn’t think so.” Sophia entered, toweling her long dark hair. “Your gut sees the changes in him. You’ve been staring at him all afternoon. Not the way you looked at him when you arrived. The other way. The way we all did, eventually.”
A wave of primal longing, so sharp it made her breath catch, hit Elara. It wasn't entirely personal attraction; it was a gravitational pull towards the radiating potency he emitted. She looked at the women encircling her. Beautiful, deadly, welcoming.
“It’s getting late,” Anya said softly, a knowing glint in her warm amber eyes. “Way too late to drive that rental car down the mountain in the dark.” She tilted her head. “Would you like to stay for dinner? Stay the night?”
Fear, excitement, and an overwhelming, terrifying curiosity churned inside Elara. She nodded, speechless.
The dinner was a feast of Balinese dishes, spicy and fragrant. Laughter flowed easily, wine alongside it. Elara watched the way the women interacted, the genuine affection, the effortless consensus. There were no other men. It was as Bruce had said: it was them, just them. As the moon rose, someone put on music, something slow and rhythmic with a deep, pulsing bassline.
“So,” Freya said, taking Elara’s empty glass from her. Her pale blue eyes sparkled. “You came here for a story. Let’s see if you can understand it properly. Not with your mind. With your body.”
Before Elara could parse the words, Ketut and Sophia were taking her hands, leading her gently from the dining area back towards the open mirror room. The other women trailed behind, a procession. The golden lanterns were lit, filling the glass-walled space with a warm, flickering glow. Bruce stood by the fissure, watching them enter.
Elara’s heart hammered against her ribs. This wasn’t journalism anymore. This was something else, something she had no map for.
Nalani walked up to her, her dark eyes like bottomless pools. “You wanted to see. So we show you. Fully.” She reached for the hem of Elara’s tank top. “Can we?”
Trembling, Elara managed another nod.Her arms lifted. The tank top was pulled over her head. Her linen shorts, her simple underwear were eased down her long, toned legs. The humid air kissed her bare skin, and she felt completely exposed, not before a man, but before this tribunal of goddesses who were appraising her as a potential co-conspirator.
She was exquisite. Her breasts, freed, were full with slightly pink areolas, perfect globes that begged for touch. A delicate, dark line of hair led down her taut stomach.
Bruce approached, no longer a host, but the center of gravity. He stopped before her, his gaze raking over her naked form. He wasn’t playing coy now. His appreciation was raw, carnal. He cupped one breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple, which pebbled instantly. A soft whimper escaped Elara’s lips.
“The induction,” Lena said, coming to stand beside Bruce. She was already naked, her body gleaming. “There’s only one way through the door. A taste from each of us. A joining with all.”
Freya moved first. She knelt before Elara, her blonde hair a curtain as she buried her face between the reporter’s thighs. Elara cried out, her hands flailing before landing on Freya’s head. Freya’s tongue was a skilled blade of ice and fire, parting her folds, lapping at her clit with relentless precision. Elara bucked, her back arching. Nalani’s hands found her breasts, kneading, pinching the nipples as Freya ate her pussy with a savage focus. Her climax was swift, a supernova erupted in her belly by expert care. She came with a broken scream, her essence spilling against Freya’s chin.
As the waves subsided, Sophia was there. She guided Elara to a soft rug, on her hands and knees. Then, to Elara’s shock, Sophia moved behind her. She felt wetness, a warm, soft nudge. Sophia’s hands gripped her hips, and with a low, pleasured moan, Sophia’s wet, hot pussy ground against her ass, sliding, finding purchase. Sophia began to ride her from behind, a frantic, graceful rub, her clit seeking pressure, their soft flesh slapping together in a wet, feminine rhythm. The newness was dizzying, electric.
She barely recovered when Anya took her hand, led her to a low padded table, and lay her on her back. Anya climbed onto her face, lowering her thick, honeyed thighs, placing her own dripping wet slit onto Elara’s mouth. “Return the favor,” Anya murmured, her amber eyes heavy-lidded. Elara, now drunk on sensation, did. She licked Anya’s swollen clit, tasting a sugary tang, feeling the hood thicken against her tongue until Anya shuddered, grinding down as she came.
Jasmine presented next, straddling her head from the other direction, leaning down to capture Elara’s sensitive nipple between her teeth. The pleasure-pain was exquisite, layered with the taste of her new companions.
Ketut and Camille held her, kissed her, passed a mouthful of dark wine into her mouth as Freya now guided Elara’s hand between her own legs, moaning softly as Elara’s fingers found their mark.
It was a symphony of reciprocal pleasure, a sensual baptism, each woman giving her a distinct and overpoweringly intimate shock. She lost count of how many times she came, the orgasms bleeding into one another, her body used as both vessel and implement, until her senses were a blur of slick skin, scent, and the ever-present, patient energy radiating from the man watching it all, his colossal erection straining against his loose pants.
Finally, Lena guided Elara, her body trembling with dozens of previous tremors, to Bruce.
Elara looked up at him, dazed, reborn into a universe of new possibilities. Her green eyes were wide, no longer containing a reporter’s questions, only raw, worshipful need.
Without words, Lena, her sombra, wrapped her fist around Bruce’s massive shaft. With her other hand, she guided Elara’s head, tipping her face up.
“This is the last rite,” Lena whispered, her voice husky with pride. “You taste your God. Deep.” She pulled back Bruce’s foreskin, revealing the glistening, purple head, bigger than anything Elara had ever conceived.
“Open wide, pretty reporter,” Lena commanded.
Elara did, her jaw stretching. Her tongue tentatively licked the salty pearl of fluid from the slit. The taste was virile, shocking, intoxicating.
Bruce took hold of the base. Lena moved her hand aside. He guided himself forward, pressing against her lips, her teeth.
With a low groan, he pushed inside her mouth.
It was an immediate, shocking challenge. He was too wide. Too long. Her mouth filled impossibly, her throat clenched as the monstrous head pressed against its opening. She gagged, spittle slicking his shaft.
“Swallow,” Bruce commanded, his voice thick. “Take me down into your throat. Prove your understanding.”
He didn't allow her to falter. He held her head in his strong hands, thumbs pressing behind her jaw, and he fed himself deeper. Elara’s nose pressed into the wiry thatch of his pubic hair. Tears streamed down her face as her throat was forcibly invaded, stretched wide around his brutal girth. He began a steady, shallow, rhythmic thrusting, his cock fucking her face with complete authority. Gagging, choking sounds gurgled from her as she fought to relax her throat muscles, to accommodate this primal intrusion. She felt him bottom out, the heavy sac of his balls slapping her chin with each deep, throat-filling slide.
He kept at it, a relentless, slow-motion face-fuck, as his wives crowded around, their hands touching him, stroking his legs and hips, their own arousal spiking with the conquest. Elara’s panic subsided, replaced by a drugged, accepting euphoria. Her mind finally, truly quiet. There was only the overwhelming fullness, the physical truth of his dominion, the glorious shame of being this deliciously used.
After several brutal minutes, Bruce pulled his cock from her dripping, ruined mouth with a slick pop. Saliva and bile dripped from her chin.
He positioned her on her knees, bent forward so her head was low, her perfect, round ass raised high in the air. He smeared her own lubricating juices, abundant from her earlier sessions, back along the cleft of her ass, then pressed the bulbous head of his cock against her tiny, clenching anus.
Elara held her breath, waiting for the impossible.
“This,” he grunted, “is your final confirmation. Being marked by the source itself.”
He applied pressure. The tearing, stretching burn was beyond anything she’d ever felt. She screamed, a raw, primal sound of agony and submission. He pushed inexorably, an endless invasion, splitting her wide, burying his entire monstrous length into her virgin ass in a single, soul-destroying stroke. When he was fully seated, balls-deep in her bowels, he paused, letting her body shiver and clench around the impossible fullness. The pain began to shimmer, transmuting into a wild, untamable pleasure that lit up her every nerve ending.
Then he moved. The thrusts began, each a searing, white-hot brand. He fucked her ass with a possession that felt absolute, his pelvis hammering against her tender flesh, the sounds wet and obscene. The women’s murmurs of encouragement became a hypnotic chant. Lena reached around from in front, her fingers finding Elara’s clit, rubbing furiously in time with Bruce’s jackhammer thrusts.
Sensation overloaded Elara’s capacity. Her climax was not a wave but an exploding star, consuming her entirely. It triggered the last, dormant filament of her being; an intense heat bloomed at the base of her spine, shooting up to the crown of her head. A faint, new gold thread erupted at her
It triggered the last, dormant filament of her being; an intense heat bloomed at the base of her spine, shooting up to the crown of her head. A faint, new gold thread erupted at her throat, a delicate pulse of light synchronizing with the others in the room. Her body seized, a conduit for a pleasure so vast it bordered on terror. Bruce’s thrusts became relentless, a brutal piston driving her higher. He felt her channel clamp around him, a spasm of raw ecstasy milking his own release from its root.
“Take it,” he growled, his voice gravel. “Take all of it.”
He buried himself to the hilt and unleashed. An endless torrent of hot seed flooded her deepest channel, each pulse a scalding claim deep inside her ass. She screamed into the rug, her body shaking as he pumped her full. When he was spent, he didn’t let her collapse. He gripped her hips, slick with sweat and her own fluids, and pulled her upright, turning her roughly. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused, as he sat back on his heels and guided her to straddle his lap.
“Now,” he said, his hands firm on her waist, his slick, monstrous cock already nudging at her other entrance, “I claim your pussy.” His swirling hazel eyes held hers, capturing her completely. “With this, you are joined to me. To us.”
Elara panted, her mind struggling to form words through the haze of sensation.
“We do everything together,” he continued, his voice a low command that vibrated in her bones. “We live for each other. We are open and honest about everything. It’s all of us agree, or it doesn’t happen.” He angled his hips, the broad head of his cock pressing against her soaked, tender folds. “You belong here. We all can feel it.” He paused, the pressure increasing. “Do you accept?”
In answer, a whimper escaped her lips. She lowered herself onto him. Her tight pussy stretched obscenely around his massive girth, a burning, delicious fullness that dwarfed any memory. “I’m… I’m not very experienced,” she gasped, her inner muscles fluttering wildly. “I’ve only had one partner, and he was a lot smaller.”
Lena, kneeling beside them, smirked. She ran a hand over Elara’s trembling thigh. “All men are a lot smaller than him, girly. Just go slow.” As Elara, biting her lip, gently began to sink down further, Lena leaned forward and dragged her tongue through the mess coating Elara’s ass, lapping at the mixed fluids dripping from her bruised hole.
Elara cried out, the dual sensation short-circuiting her thoughts. She sank lower, impaling herself inch by torturous inch, feeling her virgin-tight cunt relentlessly stretched. When she finally hit bottom, his pubic bone pressed against her clit, she saw stars. She started slowly rolling her hips, a clumsy, overwhelmed rhythm. The friction was unreal, a searing blend of pain and pleasure. Lena’s tongue continued its filthy work, probing her ass.
The combined overload was too much. Her climax ripped through her with shocking, instantaneous violence. Her back arched, her head thrown back. “I accept!” she screamed, the words torn from a place deeper than thought. “I ACCEPT!”
Her cunt convulsed around him, a wet, rhythmic clenching. The golden filament at her throat blazed, shining as bright as the others. Around the room, the women exhaled a collective sigh, a wave of approval and welcome. The dark fissure in the marble floor throbbed once with a deep, amber light.
Bruce held her there, seated fully on him, as her orgasm subsided into ragged shudders. He brushed a sweat-damped strand of hair from her forehead. “Welcome,” he said, the word final.