46: Mind Break (R-18)

As they got onto the comforting bed, Lycius no longer felt the need for restraint.

The fire within him demanded more.

And so, with Xylara beneath him, legs spread in invitation, he wasted no time.

Positioning himself at her entrance, he teased her, gliding his hardened length along her soft, silken folds.

A wicked smirk tugged at his lips as he listened—muffled, desperate moans spilling from Xylara's mouth, trapped against his.

He kissed her deeply, owning her.

There was nothing tender about it—only raw, unyielding possession.

With each lingering press of their lips, the Soulbinding Covenant began its work.

Thread by thread, their souls intertwined, the binding already latching onto Xylara's very essence.

Once claimed, there would be no tomorrow where she did not belong to him.

Forever. His.

Breaking away from her lips, he drank in her expression.

The way her violet eyes glazed over, the way her body trembled, already yearning for more—

It was a sight he would never grow tired of.

And then, he gave her what she craved.

A single thrust.

Her loud, sinful moan echoed through the royal bedchamber, sealing her fate.

Lycius had no intention of leaving anything of Xylara's former self intact.

With a commanding roll of his hips, he plunged into her again—a second thrust, just as deep, just as ruthless.

Then came the third.

The fourth.

The fifth.

Sixth.

Seventh…

By then, Xylara had lost count.

Her body trembled violently, ensnared by unbearable pleasure, the heat within her surging into a blinding, all-consuming release.

Her hands clenched around his neck, her legs locked tight around his waist—caging him in, refusing to let him go.

"Ahhhhhhh…!"

A cry of euphoria tore from her lips, her overwhelmed body shuddering, melting, yielding completely to him.

But Lycius didn't stop.

He didn't give her a moment to breathe, to recover, to think.

Another thrust.

Another.

Relentless.

Already, he was building her towards her next peak.

And with every movement, Irresistible Presence grew stronger, amplifying her pleasure beyond mortal limits.

The magic of Soulbinding Covenant coiled tighter around her, embedding itself deep into her very being.

Her body was already dependent on his touch—now all that remained was for it to become utterly addicted.

Lycius's relentless pace claimed Xylara over and over again, each thrust reaching the very depths of her womb, his dominance absolute.

Her body was no longer her own—she surrendered to pleasure, lost in the storm of ecstasy he unleashed upon her.

She came again.

And again.

Every passing minute, another climax tore through her trembling frame, leaving her breathless, gasping, utterly overwhelmed.

And at every fifth peak, Lycius rewarded her submission, filling her womb with his burning essence, marking her as his.

Yet, there was a limit—a line between rapture and complete ruin.

There came a moment where Xylara teetered on the edge of breaking, her consciousness slipping into a haze so deep it threatened to consume her.

If she fell—she would become nothing but a mindless thrall, a puppet bound to pleasure alone.

And while that fate would serve their desires, neither of them wanted their dance to end so soon.

So each time she reached that precipice—that dangerous threshold where reality blurred into pure sensation—Lycius would pull away, denying her the final push into oblivion.

Instead, he guided her heated lips to his rod, letting her desperate mouth worship him.

And once she had cooled just enough—once the fire inside her had settled back into a slow, smoldering burn—he would take her again.

This cycle continued throughout the night, their bodies tangled in an endless waltz of passion—a dance that shifted with every new position, every angle of pleasure they explored.

By the time dawn painted the sky, the golden rays spilled into the chamber, gleaming over their slick, sweat-kissed bodies, highlighting the raw beauty of their union.

And yet—even as the night faded, their pleasure was not yet complete.

Xylara, once again, teetered on the brink of no return.

This time, Lycius did not pull her back.

With a final, devastating thrust, he shattered her last restraint—sending her spiraling into the abyss of absolute ecstasy.

This move had been calculated—meticulously planned and flawlessly executed.

Now, it was time for the final step.

Lycius smirked, watching as Xylara's mind teetered on the brink of absolute surrender.

Before she could fall—before she could be swallowed whole by the abyss of pleasure—his Abyssal Chains of Submission lashed out, ensnaring the fragments of her consciousness.

They did not pull her back.

They did not offer salvation.

Instead, they suspended her in that fragile state—dangling her between reality and oblivion, making her vulnerable to what was to come.

And then—he released it.

Throne of the Incubus King.

A power beyond mortal comprehension, an undeniable decree written into the very fabric of her soul.

Xylara, already weakened—her mind fractured by the emotions Lycius had carved into her—stood no chance against the absolute dominion of his will.

Disgust.

She had been forced to slaughter her own loyal subjects. Their blood coated her hands.

Despair.

She had watched—helpless, bound, broken—as Lycius beheaded every last follower who had sworn themselves to her.

Hatred.

She had cursed him, her heart screaming for vengeance, yet she could do nothing.

Hope.

Vynessa had been the lone light in her darkness—the fragile, flickering promise that something of hers still remained.

Happiness.

For the first time after the return of her daughter, she had taken a step toward reconnecting with her daughter.

Pleasure.

A relentless, mind-consuming pleasure—one that had ravaged her body and soul alike.

And now—Lycius reached into the very core of her being, where all these emotions clashed and warred within her.

With the authority of his Aetherius power and the all-consuming might of Throne of the Incubus King, he began to rewrite her.

Thoughts. Altered.

Desires. Molded.

Emotions. Twisted into devotion.

Memories. Purged and reshaped.

Her very existence was about to be rewritten—to serve him in every way, to love him beyond reason, to belong to him completely.

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