The command from Domina Ivyvale hung in the air with the weight of a death sentence and a coronation all at once. Only then did the Domina's gaze shift, a subtle, almost dismissive nod towards Damask, her chosen heir whose own power radiated with an almost oppressive heat. It was a silent, potent signal: She's your problem now. You'll be the one who'll eventually annex Nightshade, so play your cards right. Diplomatic incidents are not something the Ivy has to concern itself with now that we've resolved the border dispute with the Crimson Clan and quelled the Bandit crisis. This is all you. Break her in, cultivate her to our standards.
Damask stepped forward, his sharp eyes raking over Marigold's soft, nurturing curves, his own massive, girthy cock throbbing in a rhythmic pulse, a palpable current of lust and curiosity. He felt a stir, something beyond mere political interest. Marigold's softness was an alluring contrast to the Ivy Court's sharp edges, and the scent of her maternal mana, now subtly mingled with the Domina's potent essence, was uniquely intoxicating.
A fresh piece. A new challenge. Perhaps even a new obsession.
"We'll see if you're worthy of the title, little Nightshade," he purred, his voice a velvet growl that promised both pleasure and pain. "Follow me."
A firm, commanding hand closed on her upper arm, hauling her to her feet. The touch was not gentle; it was ownership. He turned, pulling her away from the throne and into the main throng of the court. As he led her through the labyrinth of writhing forms and lounging prides, a new spectacle began to unfold. On a sprawling nest of crimson silks, Lady Belladonna reclined, a predatory queen in her own right. Her own massive, girthy cock, a heavy, dripping spear of flesh, pulsed with a rhythm that echoed the hall's frantic beat. Marigold's eyes widened. She had just been subjected to the Domina's monumental power, but this was a different flavor of dominance—less political, more personally menacing.
"Pay her no mind," Damask murmured, his hand a firm, proprietary weight on Marigold's arm as he guided her past. "Lady Belladonna enjoys her games. They are... instructive."
Belladonna's long, elegant fingers were encircling her engorged shaft, her thumb tracing slow, sensual circles around its crown . It was a calculated act, a silent, blatant promise of power aimed at someone across the hall. As they passed, Damask's eyes met Belladonna's. Her hand never paused its slow stroking, but a cruel, knowing smirk touched her lips. Damask offered a subtle, almost imperceptible nod in return. The silent exchange was over in a second, but Marigold felt it to her core: she was a pawn on a board with players whose moves she was only beginning to comprehend.
The whispers followed them like carrion birds. "He's showing off again, isn't he?" a seasoned courtesan hissed, her own internal phallus aching with a longing for the powerful Dom's attention. "Thinks he can charm anyone, just because he's the heir. And he probably can, the bastard."
"He'll be bored with her within a week," another scoffed, adjusting her cleavage. "Then maybe that'll open up a path for us with the little Nightshade. She's ripe for a proper, deep binding."
They're right to be jealous, Damask mused, feeling Marigold tense at his side. Her resistance is… stimulating. This won't be a quick sampling; this will be a slow, delicious consumption. Her mana promises to be exceptionally potent when fully cultivated.
"Here," Damask's voice, low and rich, cut through the din as he began to explain the labyrinthine dynamics of their world, "every glance, every gesture, is a negotiation." He deliberately brushed his massive, engorged cock against Marigold's hip, a fleeting contact sending a thrum of Futa magic directly into her core, designed to heighten her awareness of his power.
Marigold felt the tendril of magic, a soft, seductive hum against her senses, an attempt to bypass her carefully constructed defenses and make her body respond despite her will. She merely offered a polite, almost imperceptible tilt of her head, maintaining a serene, unreadable expression.
Not on the first night, you arrogant prick, her internal voice scoffed, though a tremor of excitement rippled through her.
I'm not making myself an easy mark.
As they moved through a quieter alcove, Damask leaned in, his thick cock brushing subtly against Marigold's inner thigh as they walked. It was a fleeting, deliberate tease to test her composure.
Marigold, despite her resolve, felt a jolt. Her own magically expandable clit gave a tiny, involuntary twitch, swollen with the subtle influx of Damask's potent mana.
Shit. This was different. This wasn't just political maneuvering; it was a direct challenge to her control, a tantalizing invitation. And in that brief, electric brush, she knew, with a sudden, unsettling certainty, that Damask felt it too. The game had just begun.