Chapter 7: The New Harem
The slave returned at dusk on the third day. Lorna heard the private elevator ascend, its hum a familiar vibration in the marrow of the penthouse. She waited in the grand foyer, having chosen a dress of blood-red velvet that clung to her modified curves, the diamond collar its cruel anchor. The chandelier’s light sliced the gathering shadows.
The doors slid open.
He emerged first. But it wasn’t the ‘it’ she had commanded. The void was gone. He stood—stood tall—in a simple, well-cut suit of charcoal grey. His face was clean-shaven, revealing a sharp jaw and a mouth that had forgotten how to smile. His eyes, the same eyes that had been empty pools, now held a fractured, terrifying clarity. He met her gaze and gave a single, slow nod.
Behind him, the harvest.
Three men. Exactly as she had demanded. Young, twenty-something, their vitality a palpable heat in the perfumed air. They were diverse—one dark and brooding with coiled muscle under a tight black shirt, one blond and athletic with a swimmer’s build, one with russet hair and a scatter of freckles across his nose that suggested a boyish charm now permanently out of place. Their confusion was a stink in the room, masking their arousal. They were hard, each of them, tenting their trousers, a biological response to the opulence, to her, to the sheer unreality of the situation. Massive cocks, she noted with a clinical eye. Promising.
Behind them, a second trio. The sissies. Already transformed. One in a lavender babydoll dress, pale legs shaking in white stockings. Another in a tight black pencil skirt and a cheap blonde wig, lips glossy with pink frosted lipstick. The third in a maid’s outfit, the frilly apron stark against the dark nylon of her uniform. All wore small, obvious chastity cages—steel and pink plastic—straining against the thin fabric. Their eyes were downcast, trained already.
“You succeeded,” Lorna said, her voice cool.
“As you required,” the former slave said. His voice was rough, unused, but the words were clear. He placed a small electronic key on the malachite table by the elevator. “The access codes. The network maps. My debt is paid.”
“It is.” She watched him. “Does it have a name? The man who is leaving?”
A long pause. The ghosts of a thousand degradations flickered behind his eyes. “Not one I want,” he said finally. He turned and stepped back into the elevator. The doors closed on his resurrection, and he was gone forever.
Lorna exhaled, a small release of tension. Then she turned her full attention to the six who remained.
“Kneel,” she said to the sissies. They dropped as one, a rustle of nylon and lace, their heads bowing. She walked to the three men. They stared, hypnotized by the sway of her hips, the gleam of the diamonds at her throat.
“You,” she said to the dark-haired one. “Why are you here?”
He licked his lips. “The guy… the one who left… he said there was money. A lot of it. For… for service.”
“Service,” Lorna repeated, a smile touching her lips. She reached out, not touching him, but letting her fingers hover over the thick bulge in his pants. “This service?”
He nodded, swallowing hard.
“Good. You are my cocks. Nothing more. You will be kept clean, fed, exercised. You will be ready on demand. Your purpose is to fuck this ass,” she said, turning and sweeping the red velvet up over her hips, revealing the pristine, powdered curve of her cheeks, the glint of the pink cage between them. A collective, sharp intake of breath. “You will fuck it until I am raw. You will grind against my prostate until I scream. You will tease me with fur until I beg. And you will fill me with your seed until it leaks out of me and stains these expensive carpets. Do you understand?”
The blond athlete nodded quickly, eager. The freckled one looked like he might bolt, but his cock didn’t lie, straining insistently against his zipper.
“I… understand,” the dark-haired one murmured.
“Louder.”
“I understand!”
“Good.” She let her dress fall. “You three,” she said, pivoting to the kneeling sissies. “You are my ladies. My attendants. You will dress me. You will bathe me. You will lick the seed from my hole after these men are done. You will accept any use I or my guests command. You belong to the house. Now, follow.”
She led them not to the red room, but to the heart of Peter’s original design: the pink bedroom. It was a confection of silk and satin, ruffles and lace, a terrifyingly feminine chapel. The men hesitated at the threshold, overwhelmed by the scent of powder and roses. The sissies filed in and knelt against the far wall, knowing their place.
Lorna went to the vast, canopy bed, its posts wound with pink ribbons. Without ceremony, she bent over the edge, presenting herself again, her face pressed into the duvet. The velvet dress pooled around her waist.
“The dark one first,” she commanded, her voice muffled by the bedding. “Don’t be gentle. I don’t need gentle. I need to be used.”
He fumbled with his belt, his hands unsteady. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy-veined, already weeping. He moved behind her, one hand gripping the crest of her hip, the other guiding himself. The broad, slick head pressed against her tight rosebud.
“Do it,” she snarled.
He shoved forward. The intrusion was brutal, a burning, splitting invasion that stole her breath. She screamed into the duvet, a sound of pure, shocking pain that melted instantly into a guttural moan of relief. He was huge, stretching her to a breathless limit, filling the hollow ache Peter had engineered into her core.
“Fuck me,” she gasped. “Fuck your mistress, you animal. Use that cock!”
He began to pound into her, each drive a deep, punishing stroke that jolted her whole body forward on the bed. The slap of his flesh against her ass filled the pink room, a crude, rhythmic counterpoint to her choked cries. She could feel every ridge, every pulse of him. It was raw, impersonal, and exactly what her ruined body craved.
“Spank me,” she ordered. “While you fuck me. Mark me.”
His large hand came down hard on her cheek, a bright, stinging pain that made her clench around him, pulling a groan from his throat. He did it again, and again, her flesh warming under his palm, the pain blurring with the deep, internal friction.
“Cum in me,” she demanded, her voice breaking. “I want to feel it. Flood me.”
His rhythm fractured. With a ragged shout, he buried himself to the hilt and held, his body shuddering. She felt the hot, pulsing rush as he emptied himself deep in her bowels, jet after jet, a claiming that was purely biological yet profoundly satisfying. He slumped over her, breathing like a bull.
“Out,” she hissed. “Next.”
He pulled free with a wet sound, and she felt the immediate, warm trickle of his spend begin its slow descent. The blond was already there, his cock slick from his own precum. He didn’t hesitate. He drove into her well-fucked, loosened hole with a single, enthusiastic thrust.
“Yes!” she shrieked. This one was different—shorter, thicker, a relentless hammer that pounded directly onto her prostate with every snap of his hips. Sparks of blinding pleasure shot up her spine. Her caged, useless clit throbbed in its prison. She was babbling, filthy praise and degrading curses mixing into a nonsensical hymn. “Oh god, right there, you fucking stud, beat my pussy boy-cunt, make it yours!”
He fucked her with the earnest, vigorous pace of an athlete, grunting with each drive. She came around his cock, a dry, shuddering, full-body convulsion that left her seeing stars, her internal muscles milking him frantically. It tipped him over. He groaned, spilling his load on top of the first, adding to the warm, slippery mess inside her.
Before the second had fully withdrawn, the freckled one was pushing in. He was the longest, a slow, deep invasion that touched a place the others hadn’t. He seemed timid at first, but she spurred him on. “Harder, you ginger fuck! Ruin me! I want to feel you in my throat!”
His timidness evaporated. He gripped her hips and fucked her with a deep, anguished intensity, as if trying to punish the very depravity that had ensnared him. She took it all, her body a used, receptive vessel. When he came, it was with a choked sob, his release hot and seemingly endless.
Silence, save for their labored breathing.
Lorna lay collapsed over the bed, feeling the slow, heavy seep of three loads of cum beginning to leak from her ravaged hole, trailing down her inner thighs, cooling on her skin. The emptiness was gone. For now, it was replaced with a heavy, sticky, bruised fullness.
She pushed herself up, her dress falling around her. She turned to face them. The three men stood, wilting, their cocks glistening and spent, shame and awe on their faces. The three sissies still knelt, their eyes wide behind their makeup.
Lorna’s gaze drifted past them, to the small, framed portrait of Peter on the pink vanity. His mischievous glint seemed brighter.
She looked at the freckled man, who was visibly trembling.
“Clean up,” she said softly, exhaustion and power blending in her tone. “All of you. The night is just beginning. My friends will be arriving soon to see what the new mistress has acquired.”
She walked out, leaving them amidst the ruins of the duvet and the thick, sexual scent that now hung permanently in Peter’s sacred pink air. Her body was a roadmap of bruises and dripping proof. The cage was still locked. The hunger was still there.
But now, she had the means to feed it.
But now, she had the means to feed it. The throbbing, bruised fullness inside her was a tangible proof. A slow, warm trickle escaped her, tracing a path down her thigh. She looked at the three sissies still kneeling against the wall, their painted eyes wide with a fear that was almost reverent.
Their fear was a spice in the air, mingling with the pungent smell of sex and sweat.
“Look at the state of me,” Lorna said, her voice a low, rasping thing. She turned fully, presenting the glistening, used mess between her legs to them. The three loads of seed began a more earnest seep from her reddened hole. And then, a different warmth. A building pressure beneath the pink metal rose, insistent and undeniable. Her breath hitched.
The orgasm took her by surprise, a second, deeper wave that rolled up from her battered prostate. She gasped, bracing a hand on the bedpost. Her body trembled, and from the narrow tip of her caged cock, a thin stream of her own white release began to seep. It beaded at the small slit, then gushed in a weak, continuous flow, dripping pathetically onto the carpet below, mixing with the foreign cum on her skin.
She rode the sensation, her eyes closed, a soft moan escaping her. When it passed, she opened her eyes, which were dark and sharp. “You three. Over here. Now.”
The sissies scrambled forward on their knees, the lavender one trembling visibly.
Lorna pointed a slick finger at her leaking ass. “Lick it. Clean it. Lick all of the boys’ cum from my asshole.” Her finger then moved to the droplets falling from her cage. “And lick up all of my seed pouring through this cage. Don’t waste a drop. If you get me to cum again from your tongues,” she said, her gaze sweeping over them, “I will reward the one who does it.”
She then focused on the one in the maid’s outfit. “And you. The one in the frilly apron. Show me your hole. Grab that handled dildo from the cabinet and present your hope for me.” She gestured to a lacquered chest against the wall. “I’m going to make you cum in your cage as well while I lick your asshole.”
The maid stared, a confused whimper escaping her glossed lips.
“Move!” Lorna snapped, the word cracking through the room. “Everyone get to work. You have your orders.”
The lavender sissy and the blonde one surged forward, their heads dipping between Lorna’s thighs. A hot, tentative tongue, then another, lapped at the confluence of fluids trailing from her ravaged entrance. The sensation was a sharp, wet shock after the brutal fucking—intimate, degrading, and utterly thrilling. They slurped and licked, their noses bumping against her tender flesh, competing in their desperate, silent contest.
The maid scrambled to the cabinet, fumbling with the latch. She pulled out a large, pink silicone dildo with a heavy black handle. Her hands shook as she turned, presenting it like an offering.
“Bend over the foot of the bed,” Lorna commanded, not moving from where the other two feasted. “Spread your cheeks. Show me what you’re hoping for.”
The maid obeyed, bending until her face was in the duvet, her frilly skirt pushed up, her white-stockinged legs wide. She reached back and pulled the pale globes of her ass apart, revealing a tight, puckered pink hole.
Lorna watched the other two work for another moment, their tongues fluttering and probing, sending jolts of oversensitive pleasure through her. Then she pushed their heads aside. “Enough. Watch.”
She got onto her own knees behind the trembling maid. The handled dildo lay on the carpet. Lorna ignored it. She leaned in, her breath hot on the maid’s exposed flesh. Then she extended her tongue, flat and firm, and dragged it in one long, slow, wet stripe from the maid’s taint directly over her clenched hole.
The maid cried out, a muffled shriek into the bedding. Her body jerked.
Lorna did it again, circling the rim with the pointed tip of her tongue, feeling the muscle flutter and resist. She licked with a ruthless, focused precision, the way she had been taught to appreciate it. She speared her tongue inside, just a little, fucking the tight ring with shallow, insistent jabs.
“Oh God, Mistress,” the maid sobbed, her voice thick with mascara-running tears.
“You’re going to cum in your cage, aren’t you?” Lorna murmured against her skin, not stopping her licking. “You’re going to spurt your pathetic sissy juice into that little pink trap because I’m eating your ass like a common whore.”
She slid a hand around, her fingers finding the hard, caged nub of the maid’s cock. She pressed her palm firmly against it, applying a grinding pressure through the rigid plastic. Her tongue worked deeper, wetter, more invasive.
The maid’s cries became frantic, helpless little gasps. Her body bowed, tense as a wire. Lorna felt the caged organ jerk violently against her palm. A small, damp spot of greyish fluid bloomed on the front of the maid’s stockings, seeping through the vent of the cage.
“There it is,” Lorna cooed, finally pulling her mouth away, her chin glistening. “Look at you. Cumming in your cage from a tongue in your ass. You’re a natural-born slut.”
She stood up, her legs unsteady. The lavender sissy and the blonde one watched, panting, their mouths and chins shiny with the cocktail of sex. Lorna looked down at the ruined maid, then at the two awaiting judgement.
“You,” she said to the blonde one. “Your tongue was timid. You’ll need training.” Her eyes fell on the lavender sissy, whose gaze held a spark of frantic hunger. “You. You were hungry for it. Your reward is you get to clean the dildo with your mouth before it goes back in the cabinet. And you get to sleep at the foot of my bed tonight.”
The lavender sissy bowed her head, a strange gratitude in her posture. The blonde one looked shattered.
Lorna stepped over the weeping maid. She felt the cool air on her wet skin, the hollow inside her already beginning to ache anew. The three men had dressed, standing awkwardly by the door, witnesses to this new hierarchy.
“Take them to the grey suites,” Lorna said to the men, her voice drained of all warmth. “The sissies to the pink dormitory. I want everyone showered and presentable in one hour. My guests will be expecting a show.”
She walked from the pink room, leaving the smells and the sounds and the weeping behind her. The portrait of Peter in the hallway seemed to watch her pass, his silver hair bright in the low light. She didn’t look at him. She was no longer looking back. The machine was now hers, and she had just proven it could be turned on, could be made to hum, to drool, to beg.
And it was only the first hour.
The humid scent of sex still clung to the back of her throat as she dismissed them. An hour later, the penthouse smelled of bleach, floral arrangements, and tension.
An hour later, the penthouse smelled of bleach, floral arrangements, and tension. Lorna stood in her private chambers, the space that had been Peter’s dressing room, now her command post. The three sissies knelt before her in simple silk shifts, their faces freshly painted, their bodies still humming from the earlier degradation.
“You have no identity,” Lorna began, her voice cool as the marble underfoot. “You are functions. You are materials. From this moment, you are defined by what you wear against your skin.” She pointed a gloved finger at the one who had been in lavender, the one with the hungry tongue. “You. You will forever be my Fur Sissy.”
The sissy’s eyes widened above her rouged cheeks.
Lorna turned to a vast wardrobe, its doors like obsidian. She drew out a heavy jacket of white fox, a skirt of shearling, a teddy of trimmed mink. “Adorned in fur jackets, fur skirts, fur lingerie. Always.” She approached, the garments spilling over her arm like captured animals. With efficient, rough hands, she stripped the sissy of her shift. The air prickled the exposed skin. Lorna dressed her in the mink teddy, the shearling skirt, the overwhelming jacket. The scent of trapped animal musk rose warmly.
From a velvet box, Lorna produced a pair of black faux-fur cat ears. She clipped them firmly to the sissy’s blonde wig. “Now, present your hole.” The Fur Sissy bent, clutching her skirt. Lorna selected a plug from a heated case; its base was a long, luxurious sweep of silver fox fur. She coated it in clear gel and pressed the cold, bulbous tip against the waiting pucker. With a firm, relentless push, she seated it deep inside. The Fur Sissy gasped, the fluffy tail now resting against the back of her thighs.
Lorna turned to the former maid, her face still blotchy from tears. “You. Leather and Lace. Only that. From henceforth.” The wardrobe yielded a harness of black leather, its straps intricate, overlaid with panels of black Chantilly lace. A garter belt of the same combination, stockings with lace tops. Lorna dressed her, the leather cool and stiff, the lace scratching delicately. She drew a large, obsidian-black plug from a different cabinet, its surface gleaming dully. “This lives in you.” She worked it in without ceremony, stretching the sissy with a low, pained whimper. The black sphere disappeared, its flared base pressing against the lace.
Finally, Lorna faced the third, the one who had been timid. “You. Rubber and PVC. Nothing else.” She produced a dress that gleamed like a slick, black wound, the material squeaking under her gloves. A hood of the same shiny texture, with openings only for the eyes and mouth. She encased the sissy in it, the rubber clinging to every curve, sealing her in a second skin. The final plug was faceted crystal, a jeweled obscenity. Lorna pushed it home. The sissy moaned, the sound muffled by the hood.
Lorna then turned to her own reflection. She donned a brutal pink satin corset, its bones tightening with each pull of the lace, the black fox fur trim at top and bottom soft against her skin. She drew on long pink satin gloves, also fur-trimmed at the top. The sissies, understanding their first duty, scrambled to their heels. They fumbled with her makeup, powdering, painting her lips a deeper crimson, styling the long, fire-red wig she chose. Their hands trembled against her skin.
“Get into your new outfits, fully,” Lorna commanded, not looking at them as she examined her flawless reflection. “Signify what you are. Then go to the boys’ suites. Spike their drinks with the blue tablets from the bathroom cabinet. Ensure they are ready to perform. I want them hard enough to hammer nails. Go.”
They scurried out, a rustle of fur, a squeak of rubber, a whisper of lace.
Lorna took a final breath, the corset biting deliciously. She hurried into the main waiting room, where the low hum of conversation and piano music now vibrated. The guests had arrived. She recognized many from Peter’s circle—older men with acquisitive eyes, a few severe women in tailored suits. New faces, too, younger, curious. And one striking figure near the bar: a beautiful shemale, tall and poised in emerald silk, watching everything with a knowing, calm amusement.
All eyes turned to Lorna. She felt their gaze like a physical touch, assessing the new sovereign. She climbed onto the small dais near the grand piano. The room fell silent.
“Welcome,” she said, her voice carrying without strain. “You knew my husband’s tastes. His… collections.” She gestured with a fur-trimmed glove toward the three sissies, who had just re-entered and now stood framed in an archway, fully transformed into their fetish materials. A murmur rippled through the crowd. “My sissies are for free use. Enjoy them. They are here to serve.” Her eyes then found her three boys, standing near the bar, their eyes already glazed and their pants visibly tight from the doctored champagne. “But these boys,” she said, her voice dropping into a possessive, intimate register that slithered through the quiet, “are mine alone.”
She stepped down. The dam broke.
The debauchery kicked off not with a bang, but with a slow, gathering momentum. A man in a pinstripe suit already had the Leather and Lace sissy bent over a chaise, hiking up her lace skirt to finger the black plug in her ass. The Fur Sissy was on her knees before two older gentlemen, taking their cocks into her mouth in turn, the fox tail twitching with each gag. The Rubber and PVC sissy was being led away by a couple toward a curtained alcove, her shiny form reflecting the low lights.
Lorna walked directly to her three boys. The dark-haired one, his pupils wide, was gripping his own erection through his trousers. “He’s gonna burst out of these, Mistress,” he slurred, the drugs and alcohol smoothing his fear into raw need.
“Good,” Lorna said. She took his hand and placed it on the back of her corseted waist. “You first. Right here. Right now.” She turned, leaned forward against the grand piano, displacing a champagne flute. Its crystal shattered on the floor, lost in the rising noise. She gathered the back of her own skirt, revealing the pristine, powdered expanse the boys had brutalized earlier. It was still slightly swollen, red at the centre. She looked over her shoulder at the other guests, a challenge in her eyes.
The dark-haired boy fumbled his cock out. It was thicker, harder than before, a morbid tribute to the chemicals in his blood. He placed the leaking head against her and, with a single grunt, shoved his entire length inside her already-used channel in one brutal stroke.
A raw, gasping moan was torn from Lorna’s throat. The piano strings resonated softly with the impact. He fucked her with a desperate, animal rhythm, his hands gripping the fur trim of her corset for leverage. Each drive was a deep, punishing claim, the slap of his hips a public metronome. She watched the room watch her—the flickering interest, the naked envy, the sheer clinical appraisal. The shemale in green sipped her drink, her expression unreadable.
“Cum in me,” Lorna demanded, her voice ragged but loud. “Do it. Now.”
He obeyed, screaming something wordless as he slammed in and froze, his body shuddering against hers. She felt the hot, urgent flood, another layer inside her. He staggered back, his cock dripping. The blond athlete was already pressing forward, his hands eager on her hips, not even waiting for her command.
As the second cock breached her, stretching her bruised flesh anew, Lorna locked eyes with the portrait of Peter that hung high on the far wall. The party swirled around his frozen gaze—the grunts, the wet sounds, the moans of the freely used sissies, the clink of glasses, the tearing of lace.
She smiled at him, a baring of teeth, as another man’s son emptied himself into the legacy she now commanded. The ghost in the portrait had nothing left to teach her. The machine was hers, and it was running, hot and loud and filthy, and it would never stop.