Harem Master: Seduction System

Chapter 333: A Good Son-In-Law

Alaric felt her go limp beneath him.

One second, she was a live wire, bucking and screaming. The next, she was just... gone. Out cold. A ragdoll whose strings had just been cut.

He pounded into her a few more times, just to be sure, but there was no response. Just the dead weight of her unconscious body.

He’d done it. He’d actually fucked her until she passed out.

A slow, wolfish grin of pure, sated satisfaction spread across his face. He pulled his cock out of her limp body with a wet, sucking sound. It was still rock hard, pulsing with leftover energy. He felt amazing. Energized. Like he could conquer the whole damn world right now.

He looked down at her. Eleanor. A broken doll in the dirt, her face slack, her mouth slightly open, still wearing the tattered, pathetic shreds of that "whore’s costume." Her body was a map of his possession – red marks from his hands, maybe even a few bite marks he’d left in his excitement.

He felt a flicker of something. Not affection, exactly. Not even pity. Ownership. She was his now. He had broken her, and in doing so, he had remade her into something useful. Something obedient.

"Good girl," he whispered, his voice surprisingly soft. "You managed to take the punishment. And now... you are forgiven." For failing, anyway. She still had work to do.

He bent down and gently, almost tenderly this time, scooped her up into his arms. She was surprisingly light. He held her close, her head lolling against his bare chest.

He moved like a shadow through the pre-dawn gloom, carrying her back towards her tent. The Strathmore camp was still dead asleep. Zylle’s work was always flawless. He slipped past the couple of dozing guards patrolling her pavilion like they weren’t even there.

Inside her tent, he laid her down on her own simple, but comfortable, cot. She didn’t stir.

He even pulled the thin wool blanket over her naked, bruised body, tucking it in around her shoulders. Can’t have his new toy catching a cold, after all. She needed to be in good condition for their next... session.

He stood there for a moment, just looking down at her peaceful, unconscious face. A lewd, wicked smile played on his lips. She looked almost innocent like this. Almost.

His mind drifted back to the sounds he’d heard earlier. The pathetic symphony from the royal pavilion next door. The weak grunts. The quick, sad finish. The sheer, volcanic rage in Queen Kate’s voice.

’That poor, poor woman,’ he thought to himself, his mind bubbling with pure mischief. ’Seriously. All that fire. All that obvious passion. Completely wasted on that... that damp squib of a king.’

He pictured the scene again. The furious queen. The snoring, useless husband.

’It’s a tragedy, really,’ he mused, his smile widening. ’A complete and utter tragedy. That incompetent old fool can’t satisfy his wife. He can’t even rule his damn kingdom properly. He’s a failure on every possible level. Failure as a king. Failure even as a husband.’

He looked from the sleeping, broken form of Eleanor to the silent pavilion next door.

A new, brilliant, and utterly diabolical idea popped into his head.

’Well,’ he thought, his smile turning sharp and predatory. ’As a good... potential... future... son-in-law... isn’t it my duty to help out the family?’

He chuckled softly under his breath.

’I mean, if her father can’t do the job... if he’s leaving his hot young wife completely unsatisfied... then someone has to step in, right?’

’It wouldn’t be right to let all that... potential... go to waste.’

He straightened up, his mind made up. ’It’s practically a charitable act when you think about it. I’ll just have to step in and satisfy his wife, the lovely Queen Kate, myself. By sacrificing my own body, of course. For the good of the kingdom.’

He almost laughed out loud at the absurdity, the sheer audacity of it.

’It’s what I should do!’

’And,’ he admitted to himself, his eyes gleaming with a dark, excited light, ’it’ll be so much fun.’

He quickly pulled his own clothes back into order, fastening his trousers, shrugging his torn shirt back on. He didn’t care how he looked. He was done playing games for the night. Now, it was time for a different kind of hunt.

He glanced back one last time at the sleeping princess, then slipped out of Eleanor’s tent, a fox heading straight for the henhouse.

He moved like smoke through the sleeping camp, heading straight for the royal pavilion. It was quiet now. Deathly quiet. Just the faint, rhythmic sound of the King snoring like a dying bear sawing through logs.

He reached the main entrance flap, a heavy, embroidered piece of canvas. He stopped. He didn’t need to touch it to feel the magic humming beneath the surface. The wards.

’Ooh, nice,’ he thought, genuinely impressed for a split second. His magical senses mapped the structure in an instant. ’A 7th-order Runic Weave. Multi-layered. Arcane locks triggered by unauthorized entry. Pressure sensors woven into the ground. Sonic alarm triggers linked to the guard barracks... damn. This is not amateur work.’

He could feel the age of the magic, the deep, complex patterns. ’This must be the real royal magic. Passed down through generations. Too bad the current King’s a moron, but his ancestors clearly had some skill. Or at least hired mages who did.’

For a normal assassin, even another Archmage without his specific, obsessive knowledge of arcane security systems, this pavilion would be a nightmare. It would take hours, maybe even days, of careful, painstaking work to deconstruct these wards without triggering them.

But Alaric wasn’t a normal Archmage. His knowledge of magic, especially magical security and how to break it, was an ocean. Theirs was a puddle. And he had spent years studying how to get into places he wasn’t supposed to be.

He didn’t even think about trying to break the wards. Breaking things was loud. Messy. Crude.

No. He would just... unpick the seams. Like undoing a single, crucial knot in a complex net.

His fingers danced in the air, barely visible in the pre-dawn gloom, tracing complex, invisible runes of his own devising. His mind dove into the structure of the ward, following the shimmering lines of power back to their source.

’Ah,’ he thought, finding it. ’A stabilized mana crystal matrix. Predictable. And sloppy.’

He found the main power line feeding the ward network around the entrance flap. He didn’t cut it. Cutting it would trigger a failsafe alarm.

He redirected it.

He wove a tiny, intricate counter-spell, a whisper of arcane energy. It latched onto the power line like a leech.

’There...’ his fingers moved, tracing a complex loop in the air. ’And... there.’

He whispered the activation word, a custom command for this specific type of bypass spell. "Phased Resonance."

A tiny, almost imperceptible shimmer passed over the entrance flap. Nothing looked different. The wards were still active. The complex Runic Weave was still humming with power.

They just... didn’t see him anymore. At this specific point. For a very specific duration. He had created a tiny, temporary blind spot by making his own magical signature resonate at the exact same frequency as the ward itself, effectively making him invisible to the spell. It was like hiding in plain sight.

It took him all of three minutes. Maybe less.

He reached out, lifted the heavy canvas flap, and slipped inside.

The pavilion was dark. Utterly silent, except for the snoring. The air inside was stale, smelling faintly of old wine, expensive perfume, and... failure. It was the scent of desperation and disappointment.

He followed the sound of the snoring, moving like a ghost through the antechamber, past discarded goblets and overturned cushions from the Queen’s earlier rage. It led him to a heavy, ornate wooden door. The royal bedchamber.

He didn’t bother trying to pick the lock. He just placed his hand on the wood, whispered another soft command – "Phase" – and his hand, then his arm, then his entire body, simply passed through the solid oak like it wasn’t even there.

He slipped inside the bedchamber.

The snoring was louder here. Much louder. The King was dead to the world, flat on his back in the center of a massive, canopied bed, his mouth wide open, a thin line of drool glistening on his chin in the faint moonlight filtering through a gap in the heavy curtains.

And on the far side of the bed... was Queen Kate.

And just like Eleanor and he had heard... there was a wall. A literal barrier made of plump, embroidered cushions and silken bolsters, piled high between the King and Queen. It was a fortress of resentment.

Alaric had to physically bite his tongue to keep from laughing out loud. This was just... priceless. The sheer, petty, glorious absurdity of it.

He moved silently around the foot of the bed, a ghost in the darkness, his bare feet making no sound on the thick carpets. He wanted to get a good look at her.

He reached her side of the bed. And stopped.

’Damn,’ he thought, his earlier amusement momentarily forgotten, replaced by a pure, male appreciation. ’Eleanor wasn’t lying. Or maybe she was understating. She’s a bombshell.’

Kate was wearing a nightgown, but calling it that was a joke. It was a wisp of see-through, black silk. A cobweb. It probably cost more than a farmer’s yearly earnings, but it hid absolutely nothing. It was clearly an outfit chosen for seduction, a night of passion that had ended in bitter disappointment.

Her long, silky black hair was spread out across the pillow like a river of ink. Her face, even in sleep, was stunning – high cheekbones, full lips painted a deep rose, long dark lashes resting on pale, perfect skin. Her skin looked like moonlight on snow.

She was even more voluptuous than Eleanor, which Alaric hadn’t thought possible. Her breasts were massive, round and heavy, completely spilling out of the low-cut, lace-trimmed gown. The thin black silk barely contained them, and her large, dark pink nipples were clearly visible, pebble-hard even in sleep.

She was sleeping on her side, facing away from her snoring husband, one arm tucked under her pillow, the other resting on her hip. The curve of that hip, the swell of her thigh under the thin blanket...

’A shame,’ he thought, his cock giving a hard twitch. ’I can’t see her buttocks from this angle. And after hearing Eleanor describe them...’

He decided to correct that oversight.

He didn’t reach for the blanket. Too risky. He just used a whisper of his magic, a tiny thread of telekinetic force, finer than a hair.

He focused. "Lift."

The heavy velvet blanket covering her lower body slid down, silently, smoothly, pooling at her waist.

His eyes went wide.

’Gods...’ he thought, his breath catching in his throat. Her buttocks were even more magnificent than Eleanor’s. High, round, perfectly shaped, the pale skin looking impossibly soft. The flimsy black silk of the nightgown did nothing to hide the deep cleft between them. ’She’s... perfect.’

He stood there for a long moment, just drinking in the sight of her. The urge to just jump her, to wake her up with his cock buried deep inside her, was almost overwhelming.

But no. He couldn’t just jump her. She’d scream. The snoring idiot next to her might actually wake up. The guards outside would hear it. It would be a mess. A diplomatic incident. War.

No. This needed finesse. This needed control.

He smiled. A slow, dark, predatory smile. He had the perfect spell for this. One he’d designed himself, years ago, for... special occasions. For ensuring compliance. For maximizing pleasure. His pleasure, mostly.

He moved closer, his shadow falling over her sleeping form. He leaned down, his lips close to her ear.

He whispered the name of the spell, a custom-made BDSM nightmare wrapped in silken magic.

"Silken Nightmare Binds."

A shadow of his magic, finer than a spider’s thread, barely visible even to his own eyes, drifted from his outstretched fingers. It settled over her like a second skin, sinking into her, merging with her own sleeping aura.

’Okay,’ he thought, running through the spell’s parameters in his mind, tweaking them for maximum effect. ’Let’s see... Awareness: Full. Sensory Input: Maximum. Physical Movement: Null. Vocalization: Null. Ocular Control: Null.’

He translated the arcane jargon into simpler terms for his own satisfaction.

’Right. You’re wide awake now, my dear Queen. You can hear everything. You can feel everything. Every touch. Every whisper. Every breath.’

He paused, savoring the cruelty. ’But... your eyes won’t open. And your mouth won’t scream. Or moan. Or beg.’

He smiled again. ’Perfect.’

He waited a beat. He needed her to be awake for this. He needed her to know.

He reached out a hand. He didn’t caress her cheek. He didn’t gently brush her hair from her face.

He went straight for the prize.

He grabbed her breast.

Not gently. Not playfully. He grabbed it strongly. A full, heavy, possessive handful of soft, warm flesh. And he squeezed. Powerfully. His fingers dug in, his thumb finding her nipple through the thin silk and rubbing it, hard.

Kate’s body jolted violently on the bed, as if she’d been hit by lightning. Her eyes, under her closed lids, snapped open into the magical, impenetrable darkness. Her mind, ripped brutally from sleep, screamed.

’What?! Who?! Reginald?! No... not his hands... whose hands?!’

She tried to scream. For her husband, who was snoring less than two feet away. For the guards outside the door.

Mmmph! Mmmph! Mmmph!

No sound came out. Her mouth wouldn’t open. It was like it was glued shut. Panic, cold and absolute, flooded her veins.

She tried to open her eyes. To see who was touching her. She couldn’t. Her eyelids felt like they weighed a thousand pounds.

She tried to pull away, to slap the hand away, to move at all. Her body wouldn’t obey. She was paralyzed. Trapped inside her own flesh. Awake. Blind. And mute.

Pure, abject terror, unlike anything she had ever known, washed over her. This was a nightmare. A waking nightmare.

Then, as she was imploding with terror, a soft, amused, male voice whispered right in her pretty ear. A voice that was definitely, terrifyingly, not her husband’s.

"Shhh. Don’t worry, your Majesty."

The voice was low, smooth, and laced with a dark, thrilling amusement.

"Your husband is... useless. We both know that, don’t we? I heard you complain. Loud and clear. Heard how he can’t satisfy you."

The voice paused, and she felt his warm breath tickle her earlobe.

"I’m just here," the voice purred, "to do the job right."