My Taboo Harem!

Chapter 780: Marveling

On the screen, Cassiopeia’s spine performed a small, involuntary correction, a graceful betrayal that spoke volumes. The teacup, held by the iron composure of long Maxton training, did not rattle. Her face remained exquisitely arranged, a masterpiece of serene deception. But her thighs clenched harder, the elegant line of her skirt shifting along the lush swell of her left thigh.

A small, darker patch had begun, very slowly, to bloom on the dove silk where the fabric had been pressed too long against an interior that had been weeping its small, civil tribute for over an hour — a glistening confession of her soaked, desperate cunt.

Eira hummed with wicked delight.

"Beautifully done."

"Thank you."

"She’ll murder you on her return."

"I disagree; she’ll want me to fuck her. Hard and fast."

"I anticipate that."

He gestured again. The construct found a new, devastating gear. On the screen Cassiopeia closed her eyes for half a heartbeat, lost in exquisite torment. Her left hand, in her lap, fisted itself in the skirt.

Her right hand, holding the teacup, stayed perfectly steady — because the right hand had been raised by Maxton matriarchs and would not betray her even if her entire body was burning with forbidden pleasure.

"That woman is professional."

"Surgeons would weep."

"Diplomats."

"Heads of state. The discipline of being industriously fucked at long range while one’s mother watching— that, Master, is technique."

The vocative slipped through, he let her have it.

"It’s also a Maxton matriarch’s iron daughter being weaponized against her own daughter’s iron training. The comedy is exquisite. I’m now fully committed to watching this glorious, soaked disaster unfold."

"You said you had plans."

"My plans were your eulogy. They’ve been adjusted."

He waved her off and gestured again.

"Permit me a small civil objection."

"Permission denied."

"Submitting anyway. Your stats are the strongest they have ever been. You killed a Tier-One titans with a breath; not only that you’re on the Master rank now, a Vampire progenitor in your service. The whole world has a Destined Day on its calendar, and the very first activity your intelligence has elected to direct itself at on this fine recovered afternoon is —"

"Marveling."

"—spying."

"Such a strong word. Eira!"

"I am calling it what it is; spying."

"It’s marveling. There’s a difference. Marveling is reverent. Spying is reductive. I’m not reducing this woman to a target. I’m paying her the respect of proper, thorough, cock-throbbing appreciation."

"You’re using a void-ice construct seated deep inside her daughter’s dripping cunt while —"

"Look at my screen feed for a moment."

"That’s a deflection."

"Look at it."

"Stunning deflection. World-class. Enrol it in a tournament."

He gestured.

The screen split. Cassiopeia retained the right half. The left half rendered, with the slow clarity of a master shifting his sovereign attention, the antique living room from a perspective three feet to the left of Cassiopeia’s eyeline.

Madeleine Maxton came into view.

Phei sat up, utterly astounded.

The duvet pooled at his waist. He didn’t notice.

The matriarch was seated in the high-backed armchair her household had reserved for the matriarchal throne since the founding of her marriage. Late-afternoon light fell across her at the angle a Renaissance painter would have wept to be granted. Autumn light.

The slow, vespertine wash of it striking the soft contour of her left cheekbone, sliding along the unbroken column of her throat, and gathering in the small private valley between her collarbones with the devotional tenderness of a benediction.

Her hair was the dark Maxton mane Cassiopeia had inherited, coiled at the nape of her neck. A single silver thread ran from her temple back into the dark — one, no more, evidently negotiated with by the bloodline as a small civil concession to the appearance of mortality.

Her skin was the unlined porcelain of a portrait still being painted.

The pearl rope at her throat lay against the small visible flutter of her pulse with the ceremonial weight of a relic on its altar.

Phei swallowed, his cock stirring with dark hunger.

Her blouse was ivory silk, buttoned to the collarbone with the small civil restraint of a matriarch who had not, in forty years, shown more skin to a public room than her bloodline approved of.

And yet — even buttoned, even reserved — the silk could not entirely conceal the slow, honest weight of the magnificent bust beneath it.

The fabric draped; the fabric acknowledged.

Each heavy, full breast pressed against the silk in the unannounced glory of a body that had nursed three children and been preserved in the obscene, ripe bloom of its mid-thirties prime.

Her waist was narrow too.

Her hips, beneath the long civil drape of the dove-grey skirt, were the kind of architecture other women wept about at funerals.

She had crossed her legs at the knee with the elegance of a matriarch settling in for tea. The skirt fell along her thigh in a single uninterrupted line.

The arch of her left instep, raised slightly against a small slipper she had worn down to the living room, caught the light with the lambent perfection of a sculpture nobody had thought to put in the right museum.

Her hand rested on the saucer.

Her wedding ring sat on her ring finger.

The wedding ring sat on a hand that had not, by Phei’s professional reckoning, been touched the way it deserved in twenty civil years.

He made a low, guttural sound in the back of his throat.

It was not, technically, a word.

"Look at her."

Eira looked.

Continued to look.

Tilted her small translucent head with the deliberation of a fairy lining up her best joke of the afternoon.

"I cannot believe that the first and second things you’ve done since waking are, respectively, the long-distance ruination of your slave’s tea and the prolonged observational marveling at an old woman."

His head whipped to the side.

"Excuse me."

"She has a daughter Melissa’s age, her oldest was the best friend of your father, older than your father even, her oldest, Danny? Yes Danny, is just a year young than Melissa. She’s old Phei, face it."

"Old? Such blasphemy! In the entire span of your continuity — and you’ve watched empires rise and dissolve, you’ve seen the earth’s Bronze Age in real time — have you ever, ever, laid your patient diamond eyes on an old woman who looked like that? The throat; that carriage. The woman has not slumped in her chair since 1987. That is the antediluvian discipline of a matriarch whose bloodline halts at thirty-five and stays there as a freaking hot GILF until time gets bored and lets her die.

"That isn’t an old woman. That’s a vintage. That’s a Bordeaux; a cathedral nobody has bothered to consecrate, you could call her a symphony being played in an empty hall or a primordial-garde instrument sitting in the matrimonial museum of Grandpa Maxton’s dust-collecting living room not being played.

"Eira, that man is biologically retired, he’s in stasis waiting for a Destined Day awakening to even begin recovering his sexual functioning. He hasn’t touched her in any way that would interest her since the second Reagan administration — the evidence is on her ring finger, look at the dustlessness of it, that ring hasn’t been removed in twenty years because there’s been no occasion to remove it."

Eira watched him go and just face-slapped.

"She’s philanthropically available. She’s magnificently overlooked and the answer to a question the world hasn’t yet been informed it’s asking, and the question is: who is going to step in this week and patiently rectify the catastrophic underutilization of Madeleine Maxton’s magnificent body?"

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A/N:Attaboy!