The three women, his magnificent, mature Archmage-level slaves, watched his approach, their reactions a symphony of newfound devotion.
Ondine, ever his most devoted queen, let out a low, throaty purr. Her dark eyes, which had held the sharp, calculating glint of a political mastermind moments before, were now soft, glazed with a deep, abiding lust. She shifted, her magnificent, heavy breasts jiggling, her raven hair spilling across the silken pillows, a silent, open invitation.
Priscilla, the proud Archmage who had resisted him so fiercely, now trembled, not with fear, but with a burgeoning, undeniable excitement. The last vestiges of her defiance had been washed away in the torrent of pleasure he had forced upon her, her body now a finely-tuned instrument that hummed with a desperate need for his touch. Her magnificent, voluptuous form seemed to soften, to open, her pale skin flushed a delicate pink.
