Chapter 33: The Supplicant's Vow
T
The young Balinese woman knelt before Ketut, pressing her forehead against the cool mosaic tile, her slender back curved in a perfect arc of submission. Her whisper was a thread of sound, barely audible over the gentle plash of the fountain. “Bukan tubuhku tapi jiwaku merindukannya, seperti pasang merindukan bulan.”
Ketut’s dark eyes, fixed on the girl, flared with a sudden, deep recognition. She turned her head slowly toward the shadows where Bruce stood. “Not my body but my soul aches for him,” she translated, her voice thick with an emotion that mirrored the girl’s. “Like the tide for the moon.”
Bruce watched from beneath the pergola, the last of the dusk light painting his bald scalp in tones of gold and violet. He felt the words sink into him, a different kind of pull than the raw, physical craving he knew so well. This was a chill, a deepwater current tugging at something far older within his chest. And yet, his body responded in its own ancient language. Beneath the loose linen of his pants, his cock, that monstrous, thickened length of flesh, stirred heavily, a slow swell of heat that strained against the fabric.
Ketut watched the shift in him, her gaze dropping for a fraction of a second to the obvious bulge before returning to his face. “She speaks the truth,” Ketut murmured, stepping closer to him as Lena and Nalani materialized from the other side of the courtyard, drawn by the intensity in the air. “It is love and devotion. Her soul is reaching out to yours. I can feel it. It’s… pure.”
Lena moved like smoke, her bare feet silent on the stone. Her eyes, usually alight with playful fire, were serious, assessing. She stopped beside the kneeling girl, looking down at the exposed nape of her neck, the fragile line of her spine visible through the thin cotton of her sarong. Nalani, her shadow’s shadow, stood just behind Lena, a silent, watchful presence.
“Prove your devotion,” Lena said, her voice not unkind, but absolute. It was a command, simple and direct.
The girl, Nyoman, lifted her head. Her eyes were pools of liquid obsidian, wide with fear and a terrifying hope. She looked past Lena, seeking Bruce in the shadows. He took one step forward, into the candlelight, and her breath hitched. The swirling hues of his hazel eyes seemed to capture and spin the flickering light.
“How?” Nyoman whispered, the word meant for Ketut but her gaze locked on Bruce.
Lena answered instead. She reached out, her fingers deft and sure, and untied the knot at Nyoman’s shoulder. The sarong loosened, pooling around her knees on the tile. The young woman was revealed in the soft light, her skin the color of wild honey, her small breasts high and tipped with dark, taut nipples. A wisp of black hair adorned the junction of her slender thighs. She trembled, but did not move to cover herself.
“You say your soul aches,” Lena said, kneeling now so they were eye-to-eye. “But devotion is not just a feeling. It is an act. It is service. It is the body honoring what the soul knows.” She glanced over her shoulder at Bruce. “He is a god who walks as a man. His need is… profound. Can your devotion meet that need? Can your body serve what your soul claims?”
Nyoman’s eyes welled, but she nodded, a sharp, decisive movement. “Yes.”
Lena stood, turning to Bruce. “She is ready.”
Bruce felt the pulse of his own blood, a drumbeat in his ears. The reverence in the air was aphrodisiac. He saw the way Camille watched from a wrought-iron chair, her expression a complex mix of arousal and maternal concern. He saw Jasmine, Freya, Anya, Elara, Sophia—all his women—arrayed around the courtyard, their faces illuminated by candle flame and a shared, hungry understanding. This was their world, their truth.
He walked forward, the sheer size of him dwarfing the kneeling girl. His cock was now fully, blatantly erect, a massive ridge distorting his pants. He untied the drawstring and let them fall. His erection sprang free, thick-veined and impossibly long, the head a ruddy, swollen crown. Nyoman’s eyes dropped to it and her lips parted in a silent gasp of awe, not fear.
“Touch him,” Lena instructed softly, standing beside her like a priestess. “Show your god you are not afraid of his nature.”
Nyoman extended a shaking hand. Her fingers, delicate and fine-boned, brushed the heated skin of his shaft. A small sound escaped her throat. She wrapped her hand around him, her fingers not even meeting, and began a tentative stroke. Her touch was feather-light, worshipful.
“More,” Lena urged, her own breath coming faster. “Use your mouth. Taste him. Let him feel your devotion on your tongue.”
Obediently, Nyoman leaned forward. She opened her lips, her tongue peeking out to tentatively lick the broad head, tasting the salty pre-seed that already glistened there. A shudder ran through her. Then, with a courage that seemed to surprise even her, she took him into her mouth.
She could not hope to take his full length. She managed perhaps four inches, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked, her tongue swirling. Her eyes slid closed in concentration. It was clumsy, innocent, achingly earnest. Bruce watched the top of her head, her dark hair against his pale stomach, and a groan rumbled in his chest. The sight of her submission, the feel of her untutored, desperate mouth—it ignited a furnace in his gut.
“Good,” Lena purred, her hand coming to rest on Nyoman’s head, not guiding, just possessing. “But this is not enough for a god.” She looked at Sophia. “Sophia. Show her.”
Sophia moved with the fluid grace of her training. She knelt on Nyoman’s other side, her striking green eyes locked on Bruce’s face. “Watch, little one,” she murmured to Nyoman, before taking Bruce’s cock from her mouth with a soft pop.
With no hesitation, Sophia opened her jaw wide, her throat relaxing in a practiced, impossible way, and took him deep. She swallowed him, inch by incredible inch, until her nose pressed into the dark hair at his base. She held it there, her eyes watering but triumphant, then withdrew with a slow, slick glide, her tongue pressed flat against the underside.
Nyoman watched, stunned, her lips wet and slack.
“Your soul’s devotion is beautiful,” Lena said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper right by the girl’s ear. “But his body requires more. He will fuck you now. He will claim you. And you will take him, every part of him, for him. That is the proof.”
Bruce felt a final thread of restraint snap. He pulled Sophia gently off him with a hand in her hair. His gaze burned into Nyoman. “On your hands and knees,” he said, the command leaving no room for doubt.
Trembling violently, Nyoman shifted on the cold tile, presenting herself. Her back was a delicate curve, her ass small and high, the dark flower of her sex visible and already glistening with her own arousal.
Lena produced a small vial of oil from somewhere, pouring it into her palm before smoothing it over Bruce’s monstrous cock, the slick sound loud in the quiet courtyard. She stroked him firmly, coating every thick inch. “For you, mi dios,” she whispered, her eyes gleaming with a fierce pride.
Bruce positioned himself behind Nyoman. The broad head of his cock nudged against her tight entrance. She was tiny, impossibly so compared to him. He pushed, just an initial pressure.
A sharp, stifled cry burst from her lips. Her whole body tensed, her knuckles white against the tile.
“Breathe, little one,” Ketut’s voice came, soothing and firm from the side. “Breathe and open for him. Your soul called him. Let your body welcome him home.”
Nyoman sobbed, a sound of pain and ecstatic surrender, and forced her muscles to relax. Bruce pushed forward, a relentless, steady invasion. Her tight, virgin flesh stretched obscenely around him, a burning, impossible fullness. He could feel every internal flutter, every clenching resistance as he sank deeper, past the point of reason, until his hips met the backs of her thighs.
She was utterly impaled, speared on him, her body trembling violently. A tear fell from her cheek and splashed on the tile beneath her.
“Fuck,” Bruce growled, the sensation of her devastating tightness, the hot clutch of her around his massive girth, driving him to a primal edge. He withdrew slightly, then thrust back in, a harder, deeper stroke.
Nyoman screamed, a raw, tearing sound that melted into a long, low moan. The pain was transmuting, burning into a pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. Her head dropped, her hair sweeping the floor.
Bruce set a rhythm, powerful, piston-like strokes that shook her small frame with each impact. The lewd, wet sounds of their joining filled the courtyard, a syncopated beat against the fountain’s whisper. He held her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, anchoring her as he drove into her, his balls slapping against her with every thrust.
Around them, the energy shifted, grew dense and charged. Camille’s hand had slid into her own clothing, her eyes dark with need. Jasmine and Anya were kissing, their hands roaming. Freya watched, transfixed, her pale skin flushed. Elara, the reporter, had her notebook forgotten at her feet, her mouth agape, her green eyes wide with shock and a dawning, hungry comprehension.
Bruce felt a power surge within him, a dark, joyous expansion that went beyond the physical. This was communion. This was worship. He fucked into Nyoman with abandon now, her cries becoming continuous, guttural sounds of surrender. He could feel her climax building, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around his shaft like a frantic heartbeat.
“Come for your god,” he commanded, his voice a thunderous roll.
It shattered her. Her body bowed, a seismic convulsion ripping through her as she came with a ragged shriek, her channel milking him in violent, rhythmic pulses. The sensation tipped him over the edge. With a final, deep plunge, he buried himself to the root and let go. His release was a torrent, pumping into her in hot, endless spurts, claiming her, filling her, sealing the vow her soul had made.
He stayed there for a long moment, slumped over her, both of them panting, slick with sweat. Slowly, he pulled out. Nyoman collapsed onto her side on the cool tile, spent, weeping softly, a mixture of oils and his seed leaking from her ravaged entrance.
Lena was there immediately, gathering the girl into her arms, murmuring in Spanish, wiping her hair from her face. “You did well. You proved it. You are his now.”
Bruce stepped back, his breathing slowing. He looked around at the circle of his women, their faces alight with a shared, fierce pride and arousal. Ketut approached him, a damp cloth in her hand, and began to clean him with ritual tenderness. Her black eyes met his, and in them he saw the reflection of the path ahead—infinite, demanding, and his.Nyoman, cradled by Lena, looked up at him from the floor. The fear was gone. In its place was a weary, absolute peace. Her soul had met its tide. And the moon, satisfied for now, cast its cold light over them all.
And the moon, satisfied for now, cast its cold light over them all.
Bruce looked down at Nyoman’s small form, curled on the tile where he had left her. Her tears were not of sorrow, but of profound dislocation, a soul jarred into a new and terrifying orbit. The reverence in the air was now tinged with the thick, spent scent of sex and salt. He knelt, the cool stone pressing against his knees. Gently, he brushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead.
“Come,” he said, his voice a low rumble that held no command, only an invitation. He slid his hands beneath her, one cradling her shoulders, the other under her knees. She was startlingly light. He lifted her from the floor as if she were made of parchment and ash. Her arms instinctively wound around his neck, her face burying against the column of his throat. A contended sigh escaped her.
“Come, I’ll show you our room,” he murmured into her hair.
He carried her past the silent, watching circle of women. Their eyes followed, a spectrum of understanding—Lena’s fierce approval, Ketut’s serene nod, Camille’s soft, complicated smile. He moved through the arched doorway, leaving the courtyard’s charged atmosphere for the villa’s quiet, shadowed halls. The only sound was the soft slap of his bare feet on polished teak and Nyoman’s shallow breathing.
The master bedroom was not merely a room; it was the joined sanctuary. He pushed the heavy door open with his shoulder.
“We all have private rooms,” he explained, his voice a soft vibration against her ear as he carried her inside. “But mostly, we sleep here together.”
The space was vast, dominated by a massive, low platform bed strewn with cushions and soft, rumpled linens. The air smelled of sandalwood and the lingering perfume of the women who shared his life. He crossed to the bed and laid her down in the center of it, her honeyed skin a stark contrast against the white cotton. The movement was slow, deliberate. He then moved in next to her, stretching out on his side, his head propped on one hand.
He simply looked at her, his swirling hazel eyes tracing the lines of her face, the gentle swell of her breasts, the delicate tremble that still occasionally passed through her limbs. He reached out and traced a line from her collarbone to her navel with a single, calloused fingertip. She shivered, but her dark eyes held his without flinching.
“Ketut has some clothes that will fit you,” he said softly. “Maybe even Anya. You are about the same height.”
She nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. Her English was basic, halting. She searched for the words, her brow furrowing slightly. Then, they came, clear and certain. “I love you, Bruce.”
The simplicity of it, delivered in her trembling, accented voice, punched through something guarded in his chest. He didn’t analyze it. He pulled her to him, her slender body molding against the hard planes of his. Their lips met, not with the consuming fury of the courtyard, but with a gentle, exploring tenderness. His hand cupped the back of her head, his thumb stroking her jaw. Hers crept up to rest on the powerful muscle of his shoulder.
He broke the kiss just enough to breathe the words back into her mouth. “I love you.” His eyes, fixed on hers, swirled with a maelstrom of feeling—fierce protectiveness, primal desire, and something softer, vast and terrifying in its depth.
Emboldened, she shifted against him. She moved to straddle his hips, her thighs framing his. His cock, semi-soft and slick from their earlier joining, lay heavy against his stomach. She took him in her small hand, her touch still tentative but sure. He hardened under her grip, the thick length growing, thickening, until he was once again a monstrous pillar of flesh.
Guiding him with care, she placed the broad, flushed head of his cock at her entrance. She was soaked, her cunt still slick from his seed and her own arousal. She paused, her eyes locked on his, breathing heavily. Then, with a concentration that furrowed her brow, she began to lower herself onto him.
It was a slow, breathtakingly intense invasion. He watched her face as she took him, inch by impossible inch. Her lips parted in a silent ‘O’ of overwhelming sensation. Her inner muscles fluttered wildly around the tip, then stretched, burned, and finally accepted him as she sank down, her weight forcing her to take him deeper than she had on the floor. A low, guttural moan crawled up from her chest.
“Fuck,” she whispered, the crude word sounding foreign and sacred in her mouth.
She seated herself fully, his entire throbbing length buried inside her. For a moment, she just sat there, impaled, her eyes wide with the reality of it. Then she began to move. It was a slow, rolling grind of her hips, a sensual exploration of this new, intimate fulcrum. Each subtle shift drew a gasp from her lips. Her hands braced on his chest, her head tilting back.
The pleasure built in her like a rising wave, faster this time, without the sharp edge of initial pain. Her movements became more urgent, a desperate rocking. “Oh… oh god… Bruce…” she chanted, her voice breaking.
Her orgasm took her suddenly, violently. Her back arched, her cunt clamping down on him in rhythmic, milking pulses that ripped a groan from his throat. She cried out, a sound of pure, unadulterated release, and collapsed forward onto his chest, shuddering. But he was not done. He held her there, his hands on her ass, keeping her moving through the aftershocks, urging her back into a rhythm.
She came again moments later, a shorter, sharper peak that left her sobbing. “Again,” he commanded softly, his own control fraying.
She obeyed, her body moving on his with a mindless, practiced cadence now. She was lost in it, in the brutal stretch, the deep friction, the feel of him claiming a place inside her she never knew existed. A third climax shook her, this one a prolonged, rolling series of convulsions that left her drenched in sweat and boneless.
He flipped her then, with a strength that made her gasp. He rolled her onto her back, never slipping out of her clutching heat, and drove into her with long, deep strokes. This was different from the courtyard. This was not a claiming, but a consummation. He kissed her as he fucked her, swallowing her cries, his thrusts powerful but measured, aimed at the deepest part of her. Each one jolted a fresh whimper from her throat, a fresh spasm from her core.
“My sweet girl,” he growled against her lips, his pace quickening, becoming urgent. “Take it. Take all of me.”
She could only nod, her eyes glazed, her body his perfect, willing instrument. He felt his own climax coiling, a tight spring in his balls. With a final, deep plunge that pressed her knees to her shoulders, he emptied into her, a hot, endless flood that seemed to pull her own fourth, shattering orgasm from her in return.
They lay entangled, a mess of limbs and sweat and spent passion, for a long time. Her breath gradually slowed against his neck. His fingers traced idle patterns on the skin of her back. The moon’s light through the tall windows painted a silver path across the bed, over the curve of her hip, over the vast, sleeping form of the man who was becoming something more. In the quiet dark, her whisper came again, slurred with exhaustion and absolute conviction.
“I love you.”
He held her tighter, his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, the path ahead unfolding in the shadows.
He held her tighter, his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, the path ahead unfolding in the shadows. Her breath evened out into the soft rhythm of sleep against his neck, her slight weight a warm anchor. Exhaustion, a deep and satisfying drain, finally pulled him under as well.
The world softened into a blur of warmth and tangled limbs.
He awoke not to silence, but to a dense, living heat. The scent was different—jasmine, vanilla, sandalwood, and the musk of many bodies intertwined. He blinked, the moon now higher, casting a sharper light across the expanse of the bed.
They were surrounded. Camille was curled against his back, her arm draped over his ribcage. Lena lay facing him, her dark eyes already open and watching, her head propped on her hand. Freya’s pale hair fanned across his thigh. Anya’s thick, warm leg was hooked over his calves. He could feel the press of Jasmine’s ass against his hip, the sleek line of Sophia’s spine against his other side. Elara and Nalani were nestled near his feet, and Ketut was a smooth, golden curve at the bed’s edge, watching over them all.
Nyoman stirred in his arms, sensing the shift. She opened her eyes, saw the circle of women, and her body tensed for a second before relaxing again, a slow understanding dawning in her dark gaze.
Lena’s fingers traced a line from his shoulder to his wrist. Her voice, when it came, was low, husky from sleep, and carried a quiet, unquestionable authority.
“She’s asleep in your arms, covered in your sweat and your come,” Lena murmured, her gaze flicking to Nyoman’s peaceful face. “Her soul called. Her body proved. The village gave her.” She paused, letting the truth of it hang in the warm, shared air. “It’s time for us to claim our wife.”
The words were not a question. They were a declaration, a ritual pronouncement. Nyoman’s breath hitched, her eyes wide, moving from Lena’s face to the other women who were now, one by one, opening their eyes and regarding her.
Camille shifted, her hand sliding from Bruce’s ribs to rest possessively on Nyoman’s hip. “We all felt it,” she said, her voice thick with sleep and a soft intensity. “In the courtyard. When he took you. It wasn’t just him claiming you.” Her fingers tightened slightly. “It was you joining us.”
Ketut sat up, the sheet falling to her waist. “The pull you feel,” she said to Nyoman, her Balinese melodic and familiar. “It’s not only for him. It’s for this. For the circle. The bond is for all of us, or it is for none.”
Sophia stretched, the muscles in her abdomen and arms corded in the moonlight. “So we make it complete,” she said, as if stating a simple fact. She looked at Nyoman, her green eyes direct. “Do you understand? It’s not just about him fucking you. It’s about you belonging to all of us.”
Nyoman looked from face to face, finding no hostility, only a fierce, expectant acceptance. She looked up at Bruce, seeking confirmation. He saw the last flicker of fear, of singular devotion, dissolve into something broader, deeper. She was understanding. She nodded, slowly, once.
Lena moved first. She leaned over Bruce, her breasts brushing his chest, and captured Nyoman’s mouth in a deep, probing kiss. It was not soft. It was a claiming. Nyoman gasped into it, her hands coming up to clutch at Lena’s shoulders.
When Lena pulled back, Nyoman’s lips were swollen, her eyes dazed. “Mine,” Lena whispered, her thumb stroking Nyoman’s cheekbone.
Camille was next. She moved down the bed, her lips finding the delicate shell of Nyoman’s ear, then trailing down her neck. “Ours,” Camille breathed against her skin, before her mouth closed over one of Nyoman’s small, tight nipples.
Nyoman cried out, arching off the mattress. The sound was lost as Freya descended on her other breast, her pale hair a silken curtain against Nyoman’s honey skin. Freya’s mouth was less gentle, sucking and biting with a nordic ferocity that made Nyoman whimper.
“Spread her,” Jasmine said, her voice a dark, rich command. She hadn’t moved from her spot against Bruce’s hip, but her eyes were blazing.
Anya and Nalani moved in unison. Gently, they hooked their hands under Nyoman’s knees, drawing her legs apart, opening her to the humid, crowded air of the room. Bruce propped himself up on an elbow to watch, his cock already painfully hard again, jutting against Freya’s side.
Elara, the reporter, watched for another moment, her green eyes drinking in the scene—the writhing nest of limbs, the slick sounds of mouths on skin, the whispered commands—before she too leaned in. She didn’t kiss. She simply looked at Nyoman’s glistening, exposed cunt, still puffy and used from Bruce. “So beautiful,” Elara murmured, almost to herself, before her tongue, surprisingly confident, darted out for a taste.
Nyoman was adrift in sensation. Lena was kissing her again, deeply, stealing her breath. Camille and Freya were working her breasts, their hands roaming her stomach and ribs. She could feel Elara’s curious, intimate tongue exploring her most tender flesh. A sob caught in her throat, a mixture of overwhelm and a shocking, dawning arousal.
“Let me,” Sophia’s voice cut through the whispers. She nudged Elara aside gently. “You have to open her up for everyone.” She didn’t use her mouth. She used her fingers, slick with spit, pressing first one, then two inside Nyoman’s tight channel. Nyoman moaned, her hips bucking. “She’s so fucking tight,” Sophia grunted, working her fingers in a slow, scissoring motion. “Even after him.”
Jasmine finally moved. She crawled over Bruce, her magnificent ass hovering near his face for a moment, before she positioned herself between Nyoman’s splayed thighs, opposite Sophia. “My turn,” Jasmine said, her dark green eyes locked on Nyoman’s face. She lowered her head, and her tongue found Nyoman’s clit.
It was not a tender flicker. It was a flat, broad, relentless pressure, a slow circle that immediately dictated a rhythm. Nyoman screamed, her back bowing off the bed, her fingers scrambling against Lena’s back. Sophia matched the rhythm with her fingers, curling them deep.
“That’s it,” Lena coaxed against her mouth. “Come for your wives. Show us you’re ours.”
The orgasm ripped through Nyoman with violent, helpless intensity. It was different from the ones Bruce had given her. This was sharper, brighter, a white-hot wire of pleasure pulled taut from her clit to the base of her spine. She convulsed, her hips jerking against Jasmine’s relentless mouth, her cunt clenching around Sophia’s pumping fingers.
As she came down, panting, Jasmine lifted her head, her chin glistening. “Sweet,” she pronounced. She looked at Bruce, a challenge in her eyes. “But she needs to be full. Really full.”
Understanding passed through the women like a current. They rearranged themselves with a silent, practiced efficiency. Lena and Camille guided Nyoman onto her hands and knees in the center of the massive bed. Freya and Anya knelt close to her head, their thighs framing her vision. Sophia positioned herself behind Nyoman, her own body open and ready. Ketut moved to stroke Bruce’s chest, her eyes on the unfolding ritual.
Jasmine took Bruce’s massive, throbbing cock in her hand, guiding him towards Nyoman from behind. “You got the first fuck, mi dios,” Jasmine said, her voice thick. “Now she gets the first filling.” She positioned the broad head at Nyoman’s stretched, dripping entrance.
He pushed in. Nyoman gasped, her body accepting him easier this time, her channel slick from the attention of the women and her own ecstasy. He sheathed himself to the root in one smooth, deep stroke. Nyoman cried out, her head dropping between Freya and Anya’s thighs.
Freya grasped her hair gently. “Look at me, sweet thing,” she commanded. Nyoman looked up, her eyes glazed. Freya guided her face to Anya’s waiting cunt. “Taste your sister,” Freya whispered.
Anya moaned as Nyoman’s tentative tongue touched her. That was all the encouragement Nyoman needed. Driven by a new, desperate hunger, she began to eat Anya with a frantic, eager passion, her mouth working while Bruce fucked into her with deep, measured strokes.
“Now,” Lena said, her voice husky. She was kneeling beside them, her own fingers working between her thighs. She looked at Sophia, then at the thick, weeping length of Bruce still pounding into Nyoman. “While he’s in her. Take your wife, Sophia.”
Sophia didn’t hesitate. She moved behind Bruce, aligning herself. With a slick, determined push, she began to sheath herself onto his shaft, taking him into her own body alongside Nyoman.
Nyoman felt it—the impossible, breathtaking fullness as Sophia took him deeper, the pressure of another body around the same pillar of flesh that impaled her. She screamed around Anya’s clit, the vibration making Anya shudder and cream against her mouth.
Bruce was buried to the hilt in one woman, his length enveloped by another. They were linked, a chain of flesh and need. He began to move, a slow, deep rocking that moved both women in unison. Nyoman felt Sophia’s thighs against the backs of her own, felt the shared, brutal friction.
The bed became a living, breathing entity of gasps and slapping skin and crude, whispered praise. Lena’s fingers replaced Nyoman’s mouth on Anya, letting Nyoman cry out her rapture. Camille kissed Bruce, her tongue tangling with his. Ketut’s hands were everywhere, soothing, stroking, claiming. Elara watched, her hand moving furiously between her own legs, her reporter’s objectivity utterly shattered.
The rhythm built, a punishing, glorious cadence. Bruce felt Sophia’s tight climax squeeze him first, a pulsing fist around his base. It triggered Nyoman’s own shattering release, her cunt clamping down on him in a series of spasms so intense she saw stars. Her cries were muffled against Anya’s thigh.
It pushed him over. His control snapped. With a final, deep grind that pressed both women impossibly tight against him, he erupted. His cock pulsed, jetting his release in hot, endless waves deep into Nyoman, the force of it echoed in the convulsing grip of Sophia around him.
They collapsed together, a sweating, panting heap of limbs and satisfied flesh. Sophia slipped off him first, curling onto her side. Bruce pulled out of Nyoman slowly, a mix of their releases glistening on her trembling thighs. She slumped forward, caught by Freya and Anya, who lowered her gently to the mattress.
Lena looked around at the sated, tangled forms of her sisters, then at Nyoman’s spent, blissful face. She leaned close, her lips brushing Nyoman’s ear, her voice a low, final seal on the night.
“Now you’re claimed.”