My Taboo Harem!

Chapter 781: Heavenly Wonders of Mother Earth

A long, luxurious pause unfurled between them like silk across bare skin, before Eira bust out laughing.

"That was the most gloriously ridiculous monologue I have ever, in the entirety of my ancient continuity, been forced to endure."

"And yet," Phei purred, "devastatingly true."

"You’re seventeen."

"Seventeen," he replied with a wicked predatory grin, "with the ferocious libidinal hunger of a man whose ancestors spent centuries compounding the most inappropriate desires. The Cosmic Dragon supplies the merciless stamina. The seventeen-year-old supplies the ravenous cock-throbbingenthusiasm. The combination is precisely why the world is currently drowning in this delicious little private crisis."

"Master."

She let the vocative drip with exquisite exasperation.

"And as a charming side benefit," he added, settling back against the pillows like a depraved king upon his throne, "I get to make Harold and Danny my stepsons."

A long, icy silence stretched with Eira defeated for word.

"I’m going to scream into the southern shoreline for ten full minutes."

"The southern shoreline is several kilometers away."

"Precisely the distance my remaining dignity requires."

"Just let your mind imagine it; Two grown men... both of them my stepsons. By the mathematics of who is balls-deep in whom. Imagine the Christmas dinners. Imagine Danny stuttering at me across the cranberry sauce. Calling me —"

"Stop."

"— step-father."

She floated down through the air with theatrical despair, settled cross-legged on the duvet near his feet, and pressed both small cool palms against her temples.

"If I had hands large enough to silence that depraved mouth, I would. As compensation, I’m going to enchant your tongue to seize every single time you attempt that joke again."

"You can’t enchant my tongue."

"I can absolutely enchant your tongue."

"You can’t hurt your master, goes the other way."

"I’ve been alive longer than you. I have very creative ways."

He laughed — low dark and utterly unrepentant, the sound of a man who had long ago embraced the abyss and found it delightfully warm.

He waved the screen wider with lazy command.

The split rebalanced. Cassiopeia’s left thigh appeared again at the edge of the right half — the elegant line of her skirt now visibly trembling in that helpless, quivering rhythm fabric made when a greedy cunt was being industriously fucked at long range and its owner was rapidly running out of civilized ways to hide the fact that she was soaking the antique chair beneath her.

"Are you going to —"

"Yes."

"— address the rest of your harem before you launch a full seduction of a Maxton matriarch?"

"Eira, please."

"You haven’t finished Roxanne. You haven’t even dragged Roxanne and Sierra into bed together — which was the entire stated reason for claiming that Mother-daughter Mission pair in the first place. That mission is still sitting there with a great big Pending stamped across it. Your first complete pair — Melissa and Delilah — is also gloriously unfinished, because you haven’t yet buried your cock in Delilah’s tight little pussy, and You have been politely declining to let you ruin Delilah until the girl decides to come crawling on her own. Amber Castellano. Adriana Castellano. Maddie. Maddie’s mother —"

"You’re itemizing my women like prizes. I do not like it."

"You’re making them wait. You used to have an entire small mental spreadsheet."

"It wasn’t a spreadsheet."

"It was a spreadsheet."

"It was a philosophical taxonomy."

"It was a spreadsheet. And you’re about to add a third column labelled grandmothers."

"Narrow-mindedsouls might look at my bookkeeping and call it collecting. I prefer to think of it as sacred accumulation in service of a sovereign vision of paradise. A man of true culture does not merely collect women. A man of culture curates paradise; and any paradise without exquisitely preserved, magnificently ripe matriarchs is no paradise at all. It’s a dreary high school. I am not building a high school."

"You literally attend a high school."

"Technically."

"Master."

"Finishing Roxanne and Sierra will happen when both my women are ready to face the fact that they’re now both mine and finally ready to share my bed at once. The Castellano women; I haven’t even had Amber yet; I haven’t even started to shoot my shots at her mom; but definitely this week. The Madeleine mission starts over the next several glorious days. I’m not abandoning anything, I’m parallelizing. It’s masterful Harem Growth management without rushing my women or forec anything; that would hurt my women.

"The executive function of a man with an obscenely well-organised, perpetually hard libidinal calendar."

"You’ve used the word libidinal four times in the last six minutes."

"I’m committed to the aesthetic."

"The word libidinal is not, in any realm, going to redeem the sheer depravity it’s describing."

"Redemption was never on the menu, my dear."

She pause:

"That’s... a fair point."

He laughed rich and satisfied, then gestured. The construct, across an ocean, found yet another devastating gear, making Cassiopeia’s dripping cunt flutter and clench helplessly around its thick, relentless girth.

On the right half of the screen, Cassiopeia’s hand — which had maintained surgical composure for twelve long minutes — performed a small, involuntary tremble. The teacup chimed softly against the saucer while Madeleine’s sharp eyes swept across the cup, the trembling hand, and her daughter’s flushed face in one unhurried sweep, registered the delicious disturbance, and chose not to comment.

Phei smiled, slow and predatory.

"That’s my matriarch."

"Master."

"Look how graciously she lets the moment pass. The exquisite discretion of a woman who has spent years pretending not to notice things and has decided today is not the day to start on her daughter’s first afternoon home. That’s my matriarch. That’s the woman who’s going to teach me how to properly ruin other queens."

"You’re going to give me a stroke."

"Fairies don’t have strokes."

"I’m going to invent the fairy stroke. I’ll be the first. I’ll write the small civil paper afterwards. It’ll be cited for centuries."

He laced his fingers behind his head. The duvet adjusted devotedly around him. The split-screen hummed above the foot of his bed like a private window into sin.

On the left — Madeleine was leaning fractionally forward, the soft ivory valley between her full breasts catching the autumn light, her interest sharpening into something hungry and alive.

On the right — Cassiopeia, thighs trembling violently beneath the dove silk, hand white-knuckled on the saucer, mouth arranged into the perfect obedient-daughter mask her mother had paid for since childhood, eyes flickering desperately toward the ceiling in one half-second of raw, telegraphed agony — silently begging her absent Master to not, at any moment dare to stop pounding her in front of her own mother.

His hand drifted lazily.

The construct purred.

Cassiopeia’s iron composure finally cracked with a soft, almost-civilized gasp that she masked beautifully by clearing her throat into her tea.

Phei beamed like the devil who had just inherited the keys to heaven itself.

"I’m drafting my resignation letter."

"You can’t resign."

And the unconsecrated cathedral on the left half of the screen smiled at her daughter across the antique coffee table and said something Phei didn’t need to hear to understand — because he could read the slow movement of those elegant lips and the blooming curiosity in the graceful line of her throat —

He settled deeper into the pillows with a contented sigh.

He was awake.

Gloriously, dangerously awake.

It is going to be, he thought with the slow satisfaction of a man whose afternoon had just become magnificently promising, ’a splendidly depraved rest of the day.’