Young Master 1 (with Valentina – lactation + cock-warming)
Name: Lucas Aurelius Vale
Age: 20
Relation: Valentina's personal "adopted" protégé (publicly her driver/bodyguard, privately her second favorite toy)
Scene (private bedroom, just the two of them):
Lucas is curled against Valentina's chest like a needy kitten, lips latched to her leaking nipple, drinking warm milk in slow, rhythmic swallows while his thick cock stays buried to the hilt inside her pregnant pussy.
No thrusting, just soft suckling and tiny clenches, her fingers stroking his hair, whispering "good boy" as milk drips down his chin and her walls flutter around him.
Young Master 2 (with Isabella – pussy worship)
Name: Damien Silverthorn
Age: 21
Relation: Isabella's childhood friend turned secret lover (officially her "personal stylist")
Scene (Isabella's private walk-in closet, just the two of them):
Damien is on his knees between Isabella's spread thighs, face buried in her dripping pussy, tongue fucking her slow and deep while she leans back against the mirror, heart-shaped pupils glowing, one hand gripping his hair, moaning "that's it… worship your princess" as she grinds against his mouth, juices coating his chin
Valentina straddled Lucas on the velvet chaise, legs spread wide, but she didn't let him move an inch.
His thick cock rested deep inside her, pulsing against her walls, stretching her pregnant body to its limit, but she kept him pinned with nothing but a look and the slow roll of her hips—just enough to remind him who owned whom.
She picked up the ringing phone, answered on speaker, and leaned back, letting Alexander hear every tiny catch of her breath.
"Saturday still good for the family dinner, darling?" Alexander asked, voice rough with his own rhythm on the other end.
Valentina smiled wickedly, clenching deliberately around Lucas just once.
"Perfect," she purred, watching Lucas's eyes roll back as he fought not to thrust. "I'll make sure everyone's… very comfortable."
She ended the call, tossed the phone aside, and finally leaned forward, lips brushing Lucas's ear.
"Hold still, baby.
Mommy's going to edge you until you cry… and you're not allowed to move until I say please."
Lucas whimpered, hands gripping the chaise, knuckles white.
Valentina just smirked and stayed perfectly, torturously still.
Valentina stayed perfectly still, Lucas buried to the hilt inside her, every tiny heartbeat of her walls a deliberate torture.
She traced a nail down his chest, watching him shudder.
"Color, baby?" she whispered.
"G-green… Mommy, please…"
She smiled like a queen on her throne and flexed once, slow, milking him from base to tip.
His hips jerked involuntarily.
She pinned them down with one hand.
"Bad boy. I said no moving."
Lucas whined, high and desperate, eyes glassy.
Valentina leaned forward, breasts brushing his chest, lips barely grazing his ear.
"You've been so good letting Mommy use you while Daddy watched…
Now I'm going to count to ten.
If you can stay perfectly still, I'll let you cum inside me.
If you thrust even once… you don't get to cum for a week."
She started counting, voice velvet and cruel.
"One…"
Clench.
"Two…"
Long, slow squeeze.
By "five" Lucas was shaking, tears in his eyes, cock swollen to the point of pain.
At "nine" Valentina sank down hard, taking him impossibly deeper, and whispered:
"Ten.
Now."
Lucas screamed, hips finally snapping up as he came harder than he ever had in his life, pumping rope after thick rope into her, body convulsing beneath her.
Valentina followed a heartbeat later, inner walls clamping down in waves, milking every drop, her own release dripping down his balls and soaking the chaise.
She stayed on top, riding the aftershocks, kissing away his tears.
"Good boy," she purred, voice soft now. "Mommy's very proud."
Lucas could only whimper, utterly spent, still twitching inside her.
She didn't move to let him out.
Round two could wait.
She wanted him right where he belonged…
deep inside, marked, and hers.
Isabella's walk-in closet, midnight.
The only light came from the soft glow of the full-length mirror.
Isabella sat on the velvet chaise in nothing but a tiny black silk robe, legs spread wide, heart-shaped pupils already glowing with anticipation.
Damien Silverthorn knelt between her thighs like a knight before his queen.
No words.
He simply leaned in and began his worship.
Slow, deliberate licks from bottom to top, tongue flat and warm, savoring every drop like it was holy water.
Isabella's fingers threaded through his hair, not guiding, just holding.
"That's it… my perfect knight… taste your princess…"
Damien obeyed.
He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue, teasing, never quite giving her everything she wanted.
She whimpered, hips rolling, trying to chase more.
He pulled back just enough to make her whine.
Then dove back in, tongue thrusting deep, fucking her with slow, worshipful strokes.
Her thighs trembled.
Her moans turned breathy, needy.
"Damien—please—more—"
He gave her more.
Fingers sliding inside alongside his tongue, curling just right, lips sealing around her clit with gentle suction.
Isabella's back arched, robe falling completely open, breasts heaving.
She came hard and sudden, thighs clamping around his head, juices flooding his mouth.
He drank every drop, never stopping, drawing out her orgasm until she was shaking, oversensitive, begging.
Only then did he pull back, lips glistening, eyes shining with pure devotion.
Isabella cupped his face, pulled him up for a slow, deep kiss, tasting herself on his tongue.
"Good boy," she whispered against his lips.
"Now do it again… until I say stop."
Damien smiled, already sinking back down.
The closet filled with soft, wet sounds and her breathless moans.
Princess and knight.
Worship without end.
Isabella's fingers tightened in Damien's hair.
"Again."
Damien didn't hesitate.
He dove back between her thighs like a man possessed, tongue thrusting deep, fingers curling inside her with perfect precision.
Her second orgasm hit faster, harder, hips bucking against his face, a broken cry tearing from her throat.
He didn't stop.
Third time: slower, teasing, drawing it out until she was sobbing with need.
Fourth time: he added gentle suction on her clit while three fingers stroked that spot inside her that made her see stars.
By the fifth, Isabella was a trembling mess, thighs shaking uncontrollably, robe long forgotten on the floor, heart-shaped pupils glowing so bright they lit the mirror.
She came with a silent scream, whole body arching off the chaise, squirting hard enough to soak Damien's chest and the carpet beneath.
Only then did he pull back, lips swollen, chin dripping, eyes glazed with absolute devotion.
Isabella slid off the chaise on wobbly legs, cupped his face with both hands, and kissed him slow and deep, tasting herself completely.
"My perfect knight," she whispered, voice raw.
"You live for this pussy, don't you?"
Damien nodded, breathless.
"Only yours, princess. Always."
She smiled, wicked and sweet, and pushed him gently to the floor.
"Your turn to be worshipped."
She straddled his face without warning, lowering herself until his mouth was sealed against her.
"Drink me until I say stop."
Damien's hands gripped her thighs, pulling her down harder.
The closet filled with muffled moans, soft licks, and the sound of a princess claiming her throne.
Hours blurred.
Neither of them slept.
Neither of them wanted to.
The closet door clicked shut behind them.
Isabella shoved Damien against the full-length mirror, robe falling to the floor in a silk puddle.
No more teasing.
She kissed him like she wanted to devour his soul: teeth clashing, tongues battling, hands tearing at clothes.
Buttons flew.
His shirt hit the ground.
Her nails raked down his chest, leaving red trails.
Damien growled, lifted her by the thighs, and pinned her against the mirror.
She wrapped legs around his waist, heels digging into his back.
One brutal thrust and he was inside her to the hilt.
Isabella's head fell back against the glass, mouth open in a silent scream, heart-shaped pupils blazing.
He didn't give her time to adjust.
Just fucked her hard and deep, every stroke slamming her into the mirror, the frame rattling with every impact.
"Mine," she gasped between thrusts, nails digging into his shoulders. "You're mine—only mine—say it—!"
"Yours—fuck—only yours, princess—!"
The rhythm turned savage.
Her breasts bounced with every slam, nipples brushing his chest.
He shifted angle, hit that perfect spot inside her, and she shattered: walls clamping down, squirting around him, soaking both their thighs.
He didn't stop.
Kept pounding through her orgasm, drawing it out until she was sobbing his name.
Second orgasm hit her like a tidal wave.
Third made her legs give out.
He held her up, turned, and dropped them both to the plush carpet, flipping her onto her hands and knees.
One hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping her hip.
He took her from behind, deep and possessive, every thrust claiming her completely.
She pushed back to meet him, moaning brokenly:
"Breed me—mark me—make me yours forever—!"
He came with a roar, pumping her full, hot and thick, until it leaked down her thighs even as he stayed buried.
They collapsed together, panting, tangled, still joined.
Isabella turned her head, kissed him slow and filthy, tasting both of them.
"I love you," she whispered, voice raw.
"Never forget who you belong to."
Damien kissed her back, just as ruined.
"Never, princess."
They stayed like that on the closet floor, bodies locked, hearts racing, the mirror fogged from their breath.
Passion spent.
Obsession eternal.