Chapter 40: Post-coital cleanup turns into another round of debauchery as the wives' golden-flecked eyes lock onto Bruce's still-hard erection bobbing in the water, their slick hands reaching for him in unison while champagne bubbles pop against their naked skin.
The quiet after Moira’s challenge wasn’t silence. It was the hum of potential, like the air before a lightning strike. Bruce felt the engine inside him shift, its purr deepening into a curious, eager growl.
“Control one of mine,” he repeated, the idea unfolding in his mind. It was a reversal, a feedback loop turned inside out. He looked at Moira, at her fiery hair and fearless eyes. “You understand what you’re asking? My constructs… they’re tied to my raw output. They’re not just shaped by desire. They’re fueled by it.”
Moira chewed her lip, a flicker of apprehension finally showing beneath her bravado. “Aye. But the bond’s a two-way street, isn’t it?You feel ours. Maybe we can… channel a bit of yours. A taste. Let me try.”
Bruce glanced at Julianna, his near-equal in power. She gave a slight, intrigued nod. “Theoretically, it should be possible. If the link is truly bi-directional. But the voltage, Bruce. Your baseline is…”
“I’ll dial it down,” he said, more to himself than to her. He focused inward, envisioning a valve, a limiter. He couldn’t risk overwhelming her. “A pilot light. Not the full furnace.”
Moira grinned, that freckled, fierce expression returning. “Just enough to play with.”
They returned to the playroom. The space still felt warm, charged with the echoes of Lena’s surrender, Ketut’s serenity, Sophia’s brutal release. Bruce took his place, not on the viewing stool this time, but in the center of the room. He needed to be the source.
Moira stood opposite him, ten feet of empty air between them. She closed her eyes, summoning her focus. A single construct began to form beside her—a masculine shape, detailed and solid, testament to her growing skill.
“Now you,” Bruce said. He reached for that banked fire within, that reservoir of voracious sexual energy that now felt as natural as breath. He pictured a fragment of it, a splinter. A form coalesced from the air beside him, shimmering with barely restrained heat. It was simpler than Moira’s, a form of pure intent rather than intricate detail—broad shoulders, a potent, thick cock already erect.
“Link to me,” Bruce instructed her. “But don’t take the whole thing. Just… reach for the thread connected to that one.” He pointed to his construct.
Moira’s brow furrowed in concentration. Bruce felt the delicate touch of her consciousness, a probe of brilliant emerald green in his mind’s eye, brushing against the raging gold cord that connected him to his creation. It was like a tendril of ivy seeking purchase on a live power line.
He opened the conduit, just a crack.
Moira gasped, her whole body jerking. Her eyes flew open, now blazing with reflected gold. “Fucking hell,” she breathed, her Scottish accent thickening. “It’s… it’s pure want.”
“Now,” Bruce grunted, maintaining the delicate limit. “Try to guide it.”
Moira’s construct moved first, stepping behind her, its hands settling on her waist. She guided Bruce’s with a shaky mental command. It stepped forward, its movements less fluid, more primal. It reached for her breast, its grip firm, almost rough.
“Easy,” Bruce murmured, feeling the feedback—a jolt of her surprise mixed with a sharp spike of her arousal.
“I’ve got it,” she insisted, her voice tight. She directed Bruce’s construct to kneel. She made it put its mouth on her, its tongue lashing her clit with immediate, shocking pressure.
“Christ!” Moira cried out, her hips bucking. The sensation wasn’t coming from her own creation; it was Bruce’s energy, Bruce’s imagined touch, filtered through her mind. It was foreign and intensely familiar all at once, a double exposure of pleasure.
She lost the fine control. The construct’s tongue became a relentless, driving rhythm, too fast, too hard. Bruce felt her panic spike, the emerald thread fraying under the golden onslaught. Her own construct, forgotten, stood idle.
“Rein it in,” Bruce commanded, his own voice strained. He could feel the construct wanting to devour, to take. It was an extension of his id. “Focus, Moira. It’s yours. Bend it.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, her fists clenching. The brutal pace of the tongue slowed, becoming a deliberate, circling pressure. A shaky smile touched her lips. “Right… there. I see.”
Empowered, she directed her own construct now. It pressed against her from behind, its cock finding her dripping entrance. She guided it into her with a slow, controlled push, filling herself. Bruce watched, enthralled, as she orchestrated a duet of sensation—the fierce, consuming heat of his construct’s mouth on her clit, and the deep, filling stretch of her own creation moving inside her.
But holding both threads was like trying to tame two separate wild animals. Her rhythm faltered. The thrusts from behind became erratic. The tongue at her front would lapse back into a frantic, punishing pace. She was moaning, her body a tense arc of conflicting stimulus, caught between her own will and the borrowed, ravenous hunger of Bruce’s power.
“I can’t… hold both!” she cried out, pleasure tipping into distress.
“Then let one go,” Julianna called from the doorway, watching intently.
With a cry of effort, Moira released the thread connecting her to Bruce’s construct. It vanished instantly, dissipating into motes of light. But the sudden absence of its overwhelming sensation left her bereft, teetering on the edge. Her own construct, now her sole focus, pounded into her with renewed vigor, pushing her over.
Her orgasm was a shout, sharp and surprised, her body clamping around the thrusting form as she rode it out, her knees giving way. The construct held her up, continuing to move until her shudders subsided, then gently dissolved, lowering her to the floor.
She lay panting, a sheen of sweat on her pale skin. “Fuck,” she whispered, a laugh bubbling up. “It’s like trying to drive a Formula One car with your toes. Bloody exhilarating, but you’re gonna crash.”
Bruce walked over, offering her a hand. “You didn’t crash.You landed it. A rough landing, but a landing.” He pulled her up, feeling the excited tremble in her limbs. The experiment had been a qualified success. The bidirectional flow was possible, but it required immense, perhaps impossible, concentration.
Julianna stepped into the room. The look on her face was one of pure, unadulterated challenge. “My turn,” she said, her voice soft but iron-clad. “But not to control one of yours. I want a duel.”
A current of alertness shot through the bond. Camille, who had been observing quietly from a lounger, sat up. Lena leaned forward, her exhausted body forgotten.
“A what?” Bruce asked, though he already knew.
“You direct your construct. I’ll direct mine. We see who can make the other… lose focus first.” A slow, predatory smile touched Julianna’s lips. “A test of will. And capacity.”
The engine inside Bruce roared in response.A duel. Not just synergy, but competition. A pressure test for this new facet of their bond. He could feel Julianna’s power, a sun to his own, a near-equal mass waiting to be engaged. “Rules?”
“Simple,” she said, already untying her robe. It pooled at her feet, revealing her goddess-like body, all sinuous curves and golden skin. “We link. We each build one. We choose a canvas.” Her gaze swept over the other women, resting finally on Anya, who was watching with wide, violet eyes.“Anya. You’re the most sensitive. You’ll feel everything from both sides. You be the canvas. You tell us who breaks who.”
Anya’s mouth fell open. “Me? But I… I’m not strong like you…”
“You’re perfect,” Julianna said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Your sensitivity is the instrument. Bruce?”
He felt Camille’s gaze on him, a mixture of concern and fierce pride.He nodded. “Okay. A duel.”
Anya was led to the center of the room, trembling slightly. She looked small and impossibly delicate between them. Bruce and Julianna faced each other over her, ten feet apart. The air grew heavy, charged with a psychic weight that made the lights dim.
They built their constructs simultaneously.
Bruce’s formed from a vortex of heated gold light—a being of pure, aggressive intent, its form focused around a massive, intimidating cock. Julianna’s coalesced from a cascade of amber energy, similarly male, but sleek, almost elegant in its predatory grace.
“Link to Anya,” Julianna instructed, her eyes locked on Bruce’s. “Both of us. Full open channel.”
Bruce reached out with his consciousness, finding the bright, shimmering thread of Anya’s spirit. He touched it, and then felt Julianna’s powerful presence do the same on the other side. Anya gasped, her back arching as their combined attention flooded her, a double exposure of powerful wills. She was the conduit, the live wire between two poles.
“Now,” Julianna breathed.
The duel began.
It was not a physical fight. It was a war of sensation, projected through Anya’s fragile nervous system.
Bruce’s construct moved first. He sent it to its knees before Anya, commanding it to take her breast into its mouth, to suck and lick her pert nipple with slow, devastating expertise. He focused everything on that one point—the wet heat, the gentle suction, the teasing flick of its tongue.
Anya cried out, her hands flying to the construct’s head, her fingers tangling in its ephemeral hair. “Oh, god…”
But before the pleasure could fully root, Julianna struck. Her construct appeared behind Anya, its hands sliding around her waist, cupping her small breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples in a counter-rhythm. Simultaneously, she directed a tendril of pure, electric sensation straight to Anya’s clit—not a touch, but a targeted, buzzing vibration.
Anya jerked, a strangled sound escaping her. “S-stop… I can’t… it’s too much!”
“Focus, Bruce,” Julianna taunted, her voice calm. “You’re just warming her up.”
Bruce retaliated. He shifted his construct’s attention, having it kiss down Anya’s stomach, its tongue painting a hot, wet trail to the junction of her thighs. He poured sensation into the first touch of its tongue against her slit—a broad, flat, languid stroke that made Anya’s legs quiver.
Julianna answered by having her construct bite Anya’s earlobe, a sharp, possessive gesture, while the psychic vibration at her clit intensified, shifting to a rapid, insistent pulse.
Anya was sobbing now, caught in the crossfire. “Please… it’s… I can’t think!”
Bruce felt Julianna’s will, a formidable, disciplined pressure. He pushed harder, diving deeper into the feedback. He made his construct press its tongue inside Anya, fucking her with it, shallow and fast, while adding a mental push of his own—a deep, throbbing pressure against her inner walls, mimicking a thick cock.
Anya screamed, her body bowing. The combined assault was unbearable. Bruce felt Julianna flinch through the bond; the sheer, crude intensity of his push had momentarily disrupted her elegant control.
Seizing the advantage, Bruce didn’t just push pleasure. He pushed a command. As his construct’s tongue worked her, he sent a wave of pure, dominant need through the link, aimed not at Anya, but at Julianna herself—a raw, psychic image of submission, of being on her knees, of taking what he gave.
Julianna staggered physically, her eyes flying wide. Her construct flickered. The vibration at Anya’s clit stuttered.
But she recovered with terrifying speed. Her eyes narrowed, gold flecks blazing. She didn’t counter with dominance. She countered with complexity. Her construct’s hands became four, then six, ghostly appendages materializing to stroke and pinch and tease every inch of Anya’s skin—the backs of her knees, the sensitive skin of her inner arms, the nape of her neck. At the same time, she flooded the link with a cascade of emotional sensation: safety, adoration, a dizzying, all-encompassing love that was somehow more overwhelming than any carnal touch.
Anya’s sobs turned into a wail of total sensory breakdown. She was lost in the storm.
Bruce grunted, the elegant assault battering his own focus. He couldn’t match her subtlety. So he doubled down on the primal. He directed his construct to stand, to lift Anya, to impale her in one smooth, brutal motion onto its huge, waiting cock.
The scream that tore from Anya’s throat was raw, shattered. The feeling of being filled so completely, so suddenly, was a tidal wave that crashed through the link, swamping Julianna’s intricate web of sensation. Bruce focused everything on the physical reality—the relentless, pounding rhythm, the slap of flesh, the animalistic sounds filling the room.
He felt Julianna’s control begin to fracture. She tried to mount a new attack, but his raw, single-minded assault was a battering ram against her palace of mirrors. Her construct’s extra hands faded. The psychic vibrations dissolved into static.
With a final, guttural shout, Bruce pushed his construct—and through it, his will—to a devastating peak. Anya came apart in a seizure of pleasure so intense it was a kind of agony, her body clamping down, her mind going white.
The feedback through the link was a concussive blast.
Julianna cried out, a sound of shock and defeat, as her connection snapped. Her construct winked out of existence. Bruce’s held Anya through the last of her convulsions before he too released it, letting it dissolve into golden mist.
Anya collapsed into a boneless heap on the floor, weeping and trembling violently, utterly spent.
Silence, heavy and panting, filled the room.
Bruce and Julianna stared at each other across the space, both breathing hard, sweat beading on their skin. The energy between them crackled, part rivalry, part stark, newfound respect.
“You fight dirty,” Julianna finally said, a grudging smile tugging at her lips. She looked at the devastated Anya. “And you play a mean instrument.”
Bruce walked to Anya, gathering her up. She clung to him, mewling softly. “It’s okay, anjinho. It’s over.” He looked back at Julianna. “You’re a master. But this… engine… it likes it simple. It likes it primal.”
Julianna nodded slowly, her chest still heaving. “Noted.”
The group moved to the infinity pool terrace, the cool night air a balm on overheated skin. They sank into the water, the liquid warm and silky against their bodies. The moonlit gold of the pool reflected in their flecked eyes. Lena and Sophia gently cleaned Anya, while Ketut floated serenely, assimilating the new data.
Camille swam to Bruce, wrapping her arms around his neck in the water. Her body felt familiar and essential against his. She didn’t speak, just rested her forehead against his, their breath mingling.
After a long while, Elara spoke from where she lounged on the steps, her pale skin glowing. “So the bond can handle conflict. It can handle a directed, competitive surge. That’s significant. It means the structure is stable under stress.”
“It’s more than stable,” Julianna said, watching Bruce over the rim of her glass. Her competitive fire had banked, replaced by a deep, speculative warmth. “It thrived on it. Did you feel it? When we were pushing against each other, through her?” She nodded toward the drowsy Anya, who was being cradled by Moira. “The feedback… it magnified. The engine revved higher.”
Bruce felt it too. The thrum inside him was a contented roar now, sated and stronger. He looked at Camille, seeing the understanding in her eyes. This wasn’t just about pleasure, or even connection. It was about forging a tool.A weapon. A new kind of intimacy with teeth.
Lena drifted over, her amber-gold eyes soft. “So what’s the next experiment, jefe?”
Bruce smiled, a slow, weary, and deeply satisfied smile. He pulled Camille closer, feeling the steady beat of her heart against his chest. “Tonight,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, carried on the humid night air, “the next experiment is sleep.”
But as he looked out at the city lights, at the women—his wives—glowing in the moon-drenched water, he knew sleep was just a pause. The engine was idling, waiting. And they had only just begun to learn how to drive.
The warm, charged silence stretched, broken only by the liquid lap of water against the terrace edge. Bruce’s words hung in the humid air, a temporary ceasefire declared in their body’s relentless exploration. Sleep. The concept felt foreign, a mundane necessity their supercharged systems seemed to have temporarily forgotten.
Camille’s arms remained looped around his neck, her submerged body a warm, comforting weight against his. She traced the line of his shoulder, her finger following a water droplet’s path. The moon painted a silver highway across the pool, illuminating the others. Lena was whispering something to a drowsy Anya, Sophia was floating on her back, and Julianna’s gaze was distant, analyzing the data of the duel.
“You feel different,” Camille murmured, her lips close to his ear. Her voice was for him alone, a private current in the shared water.“Denser. Like a star that’s collected more mass.”
He turned his head, his nose brushing her temple. He inhaled the familiar scent of her, now underscored with ozone and sex. “It’s the feedback. It’s not just taking. It’s… integrating. Their architectures, their thresholds. It’s all in here now.” He tapped his sternum with a closed fist. “A living library of them.”
“And it’s hungry,” she stated, not asking.
“Aren’t I always?” he replied, a low rumble in his chest. But the grin was tired.
She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, the hazel now swirling with intricate, molten gold filigree. Her own warm brown eyes searched his. The confidence was there, the steady core of her, but he saw the flicker—the wife watching her husband become something new, the partner calculating the next step. “You gave them a spectacle.A lesson. You showed them the engine’s power, its gears.” She kissed his chin, a soft press. “But you haven’t taken me for a drive, Bruce. Not like that.”
He stilled. The water around them seemed to grow warmer. “Camille…”
“I watched,” she continued, her voice dropping, laced with a heat that had nothing to do with the pool. “I felt the echoes. When you were in Lena’s head, feeling her scream. When you were painting Ketut’s quiet little masterpiece. When you and Julianna turned Anya into a battleground.” Her thighs shifted, brushing against his under the water. “I want that. I want you in my head like that. Not as an echo. As the director.”
A thrill, sharp and possessive, cut through his fatigue. This was the core of it. The origin point. Her desire was the first ignition, long before the bond, before the others. It was the oldest and most potent fuel.
“You’re sure?” he asked, his hands finding her waist beneath the surface. “It’s not… clean. It’s a violation. A beautiful one, but still.”
“I’ve been yours for twenty-three years,” she said, her smile fierce in the moonlight. “My body, my heart. My mind’s just playing catch-up. Fuck me clean, fuck me dirty. Just fuck me as completely as you can.”
The others had drifted, giving them a sphere of privacy. Bruce didn’t need the playroom’s clinical sterility. Here, under the open sky, with the city a diamond-studded blanket below, felt more fitting.
He leaned in, capturing her mouth in a kiss that tasted of chlorine and her. It was familiar and endlessly new. As they kissed, he reached for the bond, but not to command constructs. He sought the unique, sun-warmed frequency that was Camille. He didn’t push a link; he opened a door and invited her in.
Her consciousness met his, not with the surrendered sigh of Lena or the serene acceptance of Ketut, but with a confident, welcoming pull. Come in, her thought-voice resonated, rich and smoky. The house is yours.
He stepped in.
Her mental landscape wasn’t a sterile chamber or a placid lake. It was their home, their real home, but saturated with memory and feeling. The couch where they’d first made love as homeowners. The kitchen island where they’d had a thousand morning coffains. The bedroom where they’d fought and forgiven and held each other through silent nights. It was all there, vibrating with the emotional patina of decades.
And layered over it, like a film of heat lightning, was her immediate, physical want. It was a deep, resonant thrum centered low in her belly, a wanting that knew every contour of his body, every trick of his touch, and now craved the unknown.
In the physical world, against the cool tile of the pool’s edge, his hands slid from her waist to cup her ass, pulling her tighter against him. His erection, half-hard from the simmering energy, surged to full, aching life against her stomach. He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “No constructs,” he whispered, his voice gritty. “Just me.In you. And in here.” He touched his fingers to her temple.
“Show me,” she breathed, her eyes dark pools of intent.
He guided her out of the pool. Water sluiced off their bodies in rivulets catching the moon’s glow. He laid her back on a wide, padded sun lounger, her skin gleaming. He didn’t immediately descend upon her. He knelt between her legs, his hands sliding up her inner thighs, pushing them apart, his gaze feasting on what was his, always his.
But now, with the link wide open, he didn’t just see. He felt. He felt the ache of her emptiness, the specific throb of her clit, the soft, slick heat waiting. He felt the echo of her memories—his mouth there, his fingers there, the thick stretch of him filling her countless times. It was a feedback loop of history and instant need.
He lowered his head, and his tongue touched her. Not a lick, but a flat, pressurized stroke from the very bottom of her slit all the way up to her clit.
In her mind, in their shared space, the sensation detonated. It wasn't just the physical wet heat. It was the context. The memory of a thousand other times this had happened merged with the shocking present, amplifying it into something seismic. A picture flashed, vivid and unbidden: him, younger, bearded, doing this in their first apartment, her hands fisted in his hair. The ghost-sensation from then layered over the now, creating a cascade of pleasure that made her back arch off the lounger with a sharp cry.
“Oh, fuck, Bruce… that’s… you’re in the memory…”
“I’m in all of them,” he growled against her, the vibration singing through her nerves. He focused, not just on the physical act, but on projecting sensation into the mental space. He pushed the image, the feeling, of his cock, hard and thick and hers, into the forefront of her mind. Not as a promise, but as a present reality. A phantom pressure, ghost-filling her.
Her hips jerked. In the shared landscape, she was on the couch, in the kitchen, in the bed, all at once, and he was with her in every scene. In reality, his tongue lashed her clit in tight, cruel circles while two of his fingers sank deep into her cunt, crooking to find that spot with unerring accuracy.
“You’re so fucking deep,” she moaned, her hands scrabbling at his wet hair, unsure if she was pulling him closer or trying to ground herself. Her thoughts were a shattered, glorious mess. Kitchen counter his hands lifting me sink spray hitting us yes there right there don’t stop—
He didn’t stop. He fed on the chaos, stoked it. He added another finger, stretching her, the burn exquisite and familiar. In her mind, he superimposed the sensation of his mouth on her breast, the sharp suck of his teeth on her nipple, though physically he remained between her legs. The dual assault—real and psychic—pulled a continuous, ragged stream of obscenities from her lips.
“I’m gonna come… I’m gonna come just from your fucking fingers and your fucking head…”
“Not yet,” he commanded, and the words echoed in both realms.
He withdrew his fingers and his mouth. The sudden absence was a physical pain. She whimpered, her body lifting, seeking. He stood, his cock standing thick and rigid against his stomach. He looked down at her, sprawled and glistening, her chest heaving, her mind a riot of need. He guided himself to her entrance, the broad head nudging her soaked, swollen flesh.
The moment of penetration, viewed through the bond, was catastrophic.
He felt her anticipation, a screaming tension. He felt her body’s visceral memory of this—the welcome, the fit, the delicious fullness. And then he felt the physical reality, the slow, inexorable breach as he pushed inside, inch by brutal inch. In her mind, it was happening everywhere—on the living room rug, against the shower wall, in the back of his old car. Every cherished, filthy memory of him taking her coalesced into this single, overwhelming now.She screamed. It was a raw, torn sound that echoed off the terrace glass. Her legs locked around his back, her nails scoring his shoulders. “All of it… fuck, Bruce, I feel all of it…”
He began to move, and the world dissolved into a feedback loop of sensation and memory. Each thrust was a physical reality—the slap of skin, the deep, pounding reach, the clutch of her inner muscles. But in the bond, it was amplified a thousandfold by the ghost of every other thrust that had ever been. He wasn’t just fucking her now; he was fucking every version of her that had ever opened for him, and she was feeling every single one.
His control, so precise with the others, fractured. This was too much, too deep. Her pleasure wasn’t a stream he directed; it was a tsunami pulling him under. He felt her orgasm build not as a peak, but as a continental shift, a slow, inevitable rending of her entire being.
“Come with me,” she begged, her voice a broken thing. “In my head… come in my head with me.”
He lost rhythm. His thrusts became frantic, desperate. The link blazed white-hot, erasing the boundary between his pleasure and hers. He felt her clit throb against him, felt the intense, internal fluttering begin, felt her consciousness start to unravel into pure, screaming sensation.
He let go.
His release was a physical explosion, a hot, pulsing rush deep inside her that seemed to go on forever. But it was also a psychic detonation. In the shared space of their minds, it was a supernova of gold light, obliterating the memory-scapes, leaving only the perfect, static void of union.
Her own climax tore through her, a series of deep, vaginal clenches that milked him, pulling another groan from his chest. It was less a wave and more a chain reaction, each spasm triggering another in him, in her, through the bond, a recursive loop of pleasure that left them both shuddering, fused at the hip and the mind.
When it finally ebbed, the link didn’t sever. It remained, a quiet, warm hum. He collapsed beside her on the lounger, both of them slick with sweat and pool water and sex. His cock slipped from her with a soft, wet sound. For a long time, the only sound was their ragged breathing syncing, slowing.
In her mind, there was a quiet, peaceful room. Their bedroom. She was lying in their bed. He was next to her, his arm around her. No ghosts, no memories. Just a profound, echoing present.
That, her thought-voice whispered, was a fucking drive.
He laughed, a hoarse, breathless sound. In the physical world, he turned his head, seeing the others watching from the pool. Not with lust, but with a kind of reverent awe. They had felt the edges of that. They knew what had just happened was different.
Julianna met his gaze and gave a slow, definitive nod. The duel had tested the engine’s power. This had tested its soul.
Camille’s hand found his, their fingers intertwining. The golden flecks in their eyes seemed to burn a little brighter, a little more in sync.
“The library has a new section,” she whispered aloud, her voice spent and satisfied.
“The best one,” he agreed.
The hum of the engine was now a contented purr, settled and deep. It had found its true north. But it was still hungry. It had just discovered the taste of infinity. Below them, the city slept, unaware of the new gravity well forming silently above it, pulling everything they were into a denser, more dangerous orbit. Sleep could wait a little longer.