Chapter 325: Conqueror’s Prize

The game was over.

The final obsidian stone rested on the board, a silent, black tombstone marking the grave of Lin Ruoli’s pride. The complex, beautiful world of strategy and intellect, the one place she was an undisputed queen, had been utterly and completely conquered. Her mind, which seconds before had been a raging tempest of calculations and desperate gambits, was now just… empty. A complete and total blank.

All that was left was the hollow, ringing echo of her absolute defeat. The strategic part of her brain that had been fighting so hard for her honor, for her very self, was gone. It had been systematically dismantled, humiliated, and discarded like a child’s broken toy.

She didn’t protest. She didn’t cry. The capacity for such complex emotional responses had been temporarily burned out of her. She just stood there for a long, silent moment, a beautiful, near-naked statue of shame, the cool air of the chamber raising goosebumps on her exposed skin.

Then, Alaric’s final, quiet command echoed in the silent void of her mind.

“Now, be a good girl and take off the rest. I want to see the grand prize I’ve won tonight.”

Her hands moved. It was a strange, disconnected sensation, like watching a puppet on a string. She wasn’t telling them to move; they just were. The order had been given, and her defeated body was simply… obeying.

Her trembling fingers found the tiny, mother-of-pearl hooks on the side of her lace chemise. The fabric was exquisitely soft, a final, flimsy barrier between her and total exposure. Her fingers fumbled for a moment, clumsy and stupid, before they finally managed to undo the first hook. Then the second. Then the third.

The thin silk whispered as it fell open.

The cool air hit her bare skin, and her nipples, a delicate, rosy pink, instantly puckered into tight, hard points from the chill and the sheer, overwhelming stress. The chemise, no longer held together, parted, revealing the full, magnificent globes of her massive breasts. They were heavy, soft, and perfectly shaped, a testament to a life of luxury and good genetics.

She let the chemise slip from her shoulders. The silk slithered down her arms and pooled at her feet in a soft, white puddle.

Her hands, still moving with that same, detached, mechanical grace, moved to the silken waistband of her drawers. There was no hesitation now. The final wall had been breached. She pushed them down over the gentle curve of her hips, down her long, pale thighs, her smooth calves, until they too joined the discarded chemise at her feet.

She stood before him, completely, utterly naked.

And in that moment, the blankness in her mind shattered, and the full, crushing reality of her situation crashed down on her. A wave of shame so intense it was a physical heat washed over her entire body, from the soles of her bare feet to the roots of her hair. Her skin flushed a deep, mortified pink.

Instinct, raw and primal, took over. She tried to cover herself. Her hands flew up in a frantic, useless gesture, one hand trying to cup and hide her breasts, the other dropping down to cover the soft, dark mound of her beautiful pink pussy.

The pose was utterly futile. It was a gesture of modesty that only served to make her seem even more vulnerable, even more erotic. Her breasts were far too large and soft, spilling around and over her desperate hands. Her attempt to hide her shame only highlighted her complete and total nudity.

Alaric didn’t move. He didn’t rush forward to claim his prize. He just leaned back in his chair, a slow, lazy smile on his handsome face, and took another long, slow sip of his wine. He was savoring this moment. He was feasting on her humiliation, on her exposed, perfect body, his ruby eyes drinking in every detail with a hot, possessive fire.

He was the conqueror, surveying the spoils of his absolute victory.

’Perfect,’ he thought, his gaze sweeping over her trembling form, from her tear-filled eyes down to her bare, vulnerable feet. ’Absolutely perfect.’

The silence stretched, a long, torturous thing that was more terrifying than any threat. Lin Ruoli stood there, naked and trembling under his hot, heavy gaze, every second feeling like an eternity. The room was quiet, save for the soft, drugged breathing of the three sleeping Archmages and the frantic, terrified hammering of her own heart. She felt like an animal in a trap, waiting for the hunter to finally decide what to do with her.

She wished he would just… do it. Whatever “it” was. The waiting, the watching, the sheer, objectifying power of his gaze, was a special kind of hell. He was dissecting her with his eyes, and she could feel every imagined touch, every unspoken, vulgar thought.

After what felt like a lifetime, Alaric finally, slowly, set his wine cup down on the table. The soft click of porcelain on wood echoed in the silent room, a sharp, final sound that made her flinch.

He didn’t stand. He just looked at her, a lazy, predatory smile on his lips, and beckoned her forward with a single, crooked finger.

“Come here.”

The words were soft, almost a whisper, but they held the absolute, unquestionable weight of a royal command.

She hesitated. Her body was frozen, a statue of terror and shame. Her mind screamed at her to run, to fight, to do anything but obey. But her legs wouldn’t move.

He didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t raise his voice. He just waited, his gaze an inescapable, physical force that was pulling her forward.

Slowly, like a lamb being led to the slaughter, she took a step. Her bare foot was silent on the cold stone floor. Then another. The world seemed to narrow down to the space between them, to his waiting, smiling face, to the promise of what was to come.

She stopped when she was standing right in front of his chair, her naked body just inches from his clothed one. She kept her hands clamped over herself, a last, pathetic shield against his devouring gaze.

With a sudden, swift movement that was too fast for her to even process, he reached out. His hand snaked around her waist, and he pulled.

She let out a small, choked gasp as she was yanked off her feet and landed squarely in his lap. Her bare, soft buttocks slammed onto his hard, muscular thighs. The shock of his warm, rough-trousers-clad skin against her completely naked flesh was electric, a jolt that shot through her entire body.

Before she could react, before she could even think to struggle, his head dipped down. His free hand moved to her thighs, parting her legs with a firm, undeniable pressure. And then, his mouth found her.

The shock of it was so profound, so utterly, completely outside the realm of her experience, that she couldn’t even scream. One moment she was standing, the next she was in his lap, and the next his mouth was on the most intimate, private part of her.

He started eating her out.

There was no preamble, no seduction, no pretense of romance. It was a raw, dominant, and unbelievably skillful assault. His tongue was an expert instrument, skilled and demanding, tracing, licking, and suckling with a confidence that spoke of long practice. It was an act of overwhelming, brutal intimacy, designed to shatter her last vestiges of resistance and reduce her to a quivering, mindless puddle of pure sensation.

As he did this, as his mouth worked its dark, exquisite magic, he whispered up at her. His voice was a low, muffled rumble against her most sensitive flesh, the vibrations traveling directly into her core.

“I beat you,” he murmured, his words punctuated by a particularly skillful lick that made her entire body jolt, a helpless, electric spasm. “Fair and square. In a game of the mind… no tricks… no magic…”

His tongue found her clit, circling it with a slow, torturous precision.

“…so I think I’m entitled to enjoy my reward, right?”

While his mouth continued its relentless, masterful assault, his hands began their own shameless exploration. The hand that had pulled her into his lap snaked around her thin waist, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, pulling her tighter against him, grinding her down onto his devouring mouth. His other hand, which had parted her legs, now roamed free. It slid up her stomach, over her ribs, until it found one of her massive, swaying breasts.

He cupped it, his large hand easily encompassing the soft, heavy globe of flesh. He kneaded it with an expert’s touch, his thumb finding her already pebble-hard nipple and rubbing it in a slow, delicious circle.

She was being completely, utterly, and skillfully overwhelmed. Pleasure, raw and terrifying, was coming at her from all sides. Her mind, which had been a fortress of intellect and pride, was dissolving into a chaotic, screaming mess of pure, unadulterated sensation. She was losing herself, piece by agonizingly pleasurable piece.

The sheer, raw pleasure was terrifying.

It was nothing like the gentle, respectful lovemaking of her husband. This was a storm. A conquest. A brutal, masterful plundering of her senses. And her body, her treacherous, traitorous body, was responding with a wild, shameless fervor that horrified her to her very soul.

A low, keening moan escaped her lips, a sound she didn’t recognize as her own. It was the sound of a creature in the grip of a pleasure so intense it was indistinguishable from pain.

She had to stop this. She had to regain some small measure of control.

She started to struggle, her hands pushing against his broad shoulders, her body trying to squirm away from the relentless, exquisite torment of his mouth and hands.

“No,” she gasped, her voice a weak, breathless whisper. “Please… stop…”

Her resistance only seemed to amuse him. He lifted his head for a moment, a wicked, triumphant grin on his handsome face. There was a slick, glistening sheen of her own wetness on his lips, a sight so perverted, so possessive, that it sent a fresh wave of shame and a terrifying, unwelcome thrill through her.

His hand that was on her breast moved with a sudden, sharp purpose. His thumb and forefinger closed around her nipple, pinching it and rolling it, not gently, but with a firm, demanding pressure that bordered on pain.

She cried out, a sharp gasp that was half a sob, half a moan, as a jolt of pure pleasure-pain shot through her.

His other hand began to roam, no longer content with her waist. It slid down the curve of her spine, over the flare of her hips, until it cupped one of her jiggly buttocks. He squeezed the soft flesh hard, kneading it like dough, claiming it as his own.

“This is a magnificent body,” he murmured, his eyes devouring her, his gaze hot and possessive. “So soft… so full… Your husband is a lucky man.”

He paused, a cruel, mocking smile touching his lips. “Or perhaps… not lucky enough to know what to do with all this.”

The mention of her husband was like a bucket of ice water. It cut through the fog of pleasure, bringing with it a fresh, sharp wave of shame and a burning, righteous anger.

“Don’t you dare speak his name!” she hissed, finding a spark of her old fire. She tried to push away from his shoulder, to put some distance between her and this monster who was defiling both her body and the sanctity of her marriage with his filthy words.

He just chuckled, a low, dark sound of pure amusement. Her defiance was a game to him. He captured her flailing hand with his own, his grip effortless. He brought her fingertips to his lips, kissing them with a mock tenderness before once again lowering his head between her legs.

This time, his assault was different. It was more aggressive. More demanding. It was a clear, deliberate punishment for her defiance. He wasn’t just tasting her now; he was devouring her, his tongue a relentless, punishing instrument, driving her closer and closer to a precipice she was terrified to go over.

She felt an orgasm building. It wasn’t a gentle wave of pleasure; it was a powerful, unstoppable tidal wave of pure, raw sensation. It was coming for her, and she knew, with a horrifying, soul-crushing certainty, that she was not strong enough to fight it.

She fought it anyway.

She clenched her muscles, trying to deny him, to deny her own body. She bit her lip so hard she could taste the coppery tang of blood. She dug her nails into his shoulders.

But it was no use. His skill was just too much. Her body, her own treacherous flesh and blood, betrayed her completely.

A raw, ragged scream tore its way from her throat as the orgasm hit her. Her back arched, her body convulsing in his lap, a series of violent, uncontrollable spasms that went on and on, each one a fresh wave of humiliating, exquisite pleasure. She was coming apart, shattering into a million pieces, and the only thing holding her together was the monster who was the cause of it all.