On a normal day, the coven would have already arrived—Adriana, Rowan, Mara, the rest—rosé bottles sweating in their hands while they exchanged poison disguised as jokes. But not today. Today she had likely canceled them all: too raw, too wrecked, too thoroughly starved for the one thing only he could supply now.
He imagined her sprawled across the sofa, thighs clenched, fingers restless, replaying every second of last night behind closed lids.
Good.
Phei reached the marble foyer and pivoted toward the kitchen. His bare feet made no sound, as if gravity itself had agreed to keep secrets.
The kitchen stretched like a cathedral to indulgence: white marble veined with silver, appliances gleaming like surgical instruments, an island vast enough to host a banquet for monarchs or mass-murderers.
Sunlight spilled through glass walls opening onto the pool deck, setting every surface ablaze in mirrored reflection.
He lifted a heavy crystal glass from the cabinet, pressed it to the fridge, and let cold water thunder in, the sound exaggerated, ceremonious. He drank in slow, deliberate swallows, savoring the chill sliding down his throat and pooling like liquid ice behind his sternum.
Somewhere past the arched doorway, the television babbled. One of her trashy, reality-laden housewife programs—synthetic outrage, designer handbags, and the occasional faint whiff of moral collapse.
He placed the empty glass down with a soft, deliberate clink, savoring the tiny punctuation of sound.
Time to feed the Dragon.
Through the towering kitchen window, he saw her. Melissa, framed in the living room's molten golden light like a fever dream made flesh, a sin sculpted by sunlight and hunger.
And Phei felt the familiar stir of ownership, amusement, and danger roll through him, a grin flickering at the corner of his lips that was all predator, all teenager who'd just discovered the first taste of real power.
Melissa.
She sprawled across the cream sectional like a goddess who'd decided modesty was for mortals. The black silk robe had given up all pretense, slipping from her shoulders to pool uselessly around her hips.
Beneath it, crimson lace clung to her like liquid fire. The bra was a cruel, translucent tease—two gossamer triangles that did nothing to hide the fat, swollen rose-pink nipples punching through the fabric, so hard they looked painful, the wide areolas dark and pebbled beneath the sheer mesh.
Her panties were an obscene scrap of soaked lace, the thin crimson string long since swallowed by the puffy, glistening lips of her cunt—lips so engorged they framed the fabric in a perfect, lewd outline, the cloth glued to her slit in a glistening camel-toe that pulsed with every heartbeat.
A fat drop of slick hung from the bottom of the gusset, trembling, ready to fall. Garter straps bit into lush thighs; patent black six-inch heels arched her feet and made her legs look a mile long, calves taut, thighs quivering with need.
Forty-three and built like a fertility idol carved by a madman with a hard-on for perfection. Her tits—massive, gravity-defying teardrops, easily a 34D now, impossibly round and high—rose and fell with each ragged breath, the weight of them making the lace stretch and strain.
Her waist was a waspish cinch, flaring violently into hips made for gripping, for bruising, for breeding.
Her skin glowed rose-gold, poreless, flawless, every inch waxed and oiled until she looked lacquered. Not a single sag, not a stretch mark, not a blemish—she was sculpted perfection, a walking invitation to ruin.
She had been edging herself since sunrise, fingers and toys buried in that greedy cunt for hours, denying herself release until she was a trembling, dripping mess. Her clit was a swollen, obscene pearl shoving the lace outward; the hood had retracted completely, leaving it exposed and throbbing.
Every few seconds her hips gave an involuntary jerk, another gush of slick flooding her thighs.
The instant his eyes found her, her head whipped around. Their gazes collided through the glass like a physical blow.
Her pupils blew wide. A desperate whine tore from her throat. One hand plunged between her legs, fingers grinding the soaked lace hard against her clit in frantic circles while the other mauled one massive tit, pinching that diamond-hard nipple until milk-white skin turned red.
Phei lifted his glass, took a slow sip of water, and watched her fall apart.
Then she stood.
The robe slithered to the floor and stayed there. She rose in nothing but that obscene red lace and those fuck-me heels, sunlight licking every lethal curve like a tongue. Her cunt lips had swallowed the thong completely; only the dark, saturated triangle at the front and the glistening strings over her hips remained visible.
A thick rope of arousal slid down the inside of one thigh, leaving a shining trail that caught the light like diamonds.
She smiled—slow, filthy, triumphant—and stalked toward him, hips rolling in a rhythm designed to destroy sane men.
Heels stabbed marble. The kitchen door sighed open.
Melissa stepped inside, and the air turned thick with her scent: Chanel and the raw, oceanic reek of a woman in raging heat. Her thighs were glazed; every step painted a faint wet print on the tile. Fresh slick dripped steadily from beneath the lace now, pattering softly to the floor in tiny, shameful droplets.
She crossed the room without haste, eyes locked on him, pupils eclipsed by lust.
When she was close enough that her rigid nipples almost scraped his chest, she stopped.
"Good girl," he said, voice low and dangerous.
The words hit her like voltage. A full-body shudder ripped through her; her nipples tightened further, visibly aching, and a fresh flood of cunt-juice surged out of her, soaking the lace anew.
One thick strand stretched from her ruined panties to the floor, quivering, before it broke and splattered.
He crooked a finger.
She closed the distance on a whimper. Trembling fingers yanked the knot of his robe. Fabric parted.
His Dragon sprang free —monstrous, veined, angry purple, easily eleven inches of wrist-thick cock, the flared head glossy and obscene, a fat rope of pre-come already dangling like spun glass from the slit.
Melissa's breath fractured. "Jesus fucking Christ," she rasped, voice wrecked. "It's… bigger again. How is that even possible? Phei, that thing is a fucking murder weapon."
Her knees buckled outright; only pride kept her upright. Her gaze was reverent, terrified, starving.
"You like it, Aunt Melissa?" he murmured, letting the Dominance Aura unfurl like black fire.
She couldn't speak. Just nodded frantically, wedding-ring diamonds flashing as her hands shook.
"Touch."
Her hands flew to him. Both wrapped around the shaft and still couldn't meet. She sobbed at the heat, at the iron-hard throb beneath velvet skin. "I can feel your heartbeat in my palms," she choked. "It's so fucking thick I can't—oh god—"
One slow pump from root to crown milked a thick, milky bead of pre-come. She dragged her fingers through it, brought them to her mouth, and sucked them clean with a guttural, animal moan, eyelids rolling back.
"On your knees," he commanded, aura pressing down like a boot on her spine. "Worship your nephew's fat cock. Show me how bad you need this load down your throat and in that greedy, cheating cunt, My Dear Aunt."
For one heartbeat the old Melissa surfaced—proud, untouchable.
He crushed it beneath the full weight of his power.
She dropped.
Knees cracked against marble. The impact forced a fresh gush from her cunt; a silver ribbon of slick stretched from her soaked lace to the floor, quivered, snapped. Hands still gripping his shaft, she stared up—eyes glassy, mascara already streaking, lips swollen and parted—while her tongue extended in desperate, worshipful offering.
"Good girl," he growled, fisting her perfect hair. "Now choke on it. Gag yourself on your nephew's cock while your husband foots the bill for the house you're defiling. Open that adulterous mouth and take every inch you've been begging for."
She attacked.
Lips pressed a reverent kiss to the base, then her tongue dragged up the full, obscene length—slow, filthy, mapping every bulging vein, lapping the salt of his skin like it was holy. When she reached the head she swirled greedily, drinking the steady stream of pre-come before stretching her jaw impossibly wide and forcing the bloated crown past her lips.
A wet, choking gag exploded from her throat as the head battered her tonsils. Spit flooded her mouth instantly, cascading over her chin in thick ropes, splattering onto her heaving, lace-clad tits.
She didn't stop.
She shoved forward, throat spasming, neck visibly bulging as inch after brutal inch disappeared between her painted lips. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mascara running in black rivers, but her eyes—fuck, her eyes were pure bliss.
Phei watched his aunt, the untouchable society queen, on her knees in broad daylight, red lace drenched and clinging to her dripping cunt, wedding ring glinting as her hands pumped what her throat couldn't yet take, drool pouring down her chin to pool between her massive tits.
He tightened his grip in her hair and thrust.
She moaned around the invasion, the vibration shooting straight to his balls. Her throat fluttered helplessly, trying to swallow, milking him with every convulsion.
Permanent mark or not, she was already ruined.
The only question left was how many times he'd flood her stomach, paint her insides, and breed that greedy, married cunt until she was sobbing, broken, and begging—on her knees, covered in his come—to wear his brand burned into her skin for the rest of her worthless, perfect life.